


How wonderful life is (while you're in the world)

by mlvdybug



Category: Red White & Royal Blue - Casey McQuiston
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Violence, Domestic Fluff, He's okay tho, Hurt/Comfort, I'm Sorry, Lots of tears, M/M, Panic Attacks, References to Depression, featuring my medical inexperience, i shot henry, their love language is physical touch bye, two idiots in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:00:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 34,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27982689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mlvdybug/pseuds/mlvdybug
Summary: The corner of Henry’s mouth. It’s disappeared now, covered by the oxygen mask fixed securely around his head, but if Alex concentrates hard enough, he can see it sprawled out in front of him. Every ridge, every bend and edge and turn of it.He knows Henry’s heart. And that’ll be enough.(or: the one where henry gets shot and alex is a goddamn mess.)
Relationships: Alex Claremont-Diaz/Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor
Comments: 134
Kudos: 312





	1. always been this way

“Alex, my love, you know I adore you, but if you don’t let me go back to sleep I will strangle you within an inch of your life,” Henry mumbles into the pillow that morning. 

  
  


Alex only laughs, kneeling down by the bed to gently rake his fingers through Henry’s hair. Marveling at how, even at the crack of dawn, the man could pass for a figure in a Renaissance painting.

  
  


Henry pushes his face further into the covers as Alex leans in close. “And would that be so bad, sweetheart?” he quips, grinning as Henry’s head pops up to show him his incredulous (and ridiculously flushed) face. 

  
  


Alex presses a kiss to his forehead. 

  
  


“I’ll have you know I’m a prince,” Henry announces, leaning into Alex’s palm on his cheek, “And I shall not be treated this way.”

  
  


Alex inches closer to his face, noticing the ghost of some freckles lingering on his cheekbones. “Uh huh.”

  
  


“I may sleep in for howsoever long I may please.”

  
  


“Right,” Alex concurs, nearly brushing their noses together. Henry’s lips begin to break into a smile.

  
  


“And I will not be _coerced_ by any mere commoner into attending a presidential brunch at five in the goddamn morning _hmpf-_ ”

  
  


Alex brings Henry into a kiss, letting the warmth of it seep into his toes and trying his best not to grin too hard. When he pulls back, Henry’s eyes have gone hazy and his lips are just quirking at the corner.

  
  


There will never be another one like him. 

  
  


“I made you Earl Grey,” Alex coos into Henry’s ear, amused by his growing struggle between the comforter and his favorite drink. “And I found the suit you like that makes your waist look nice.”

  
  


That perks him right up.

  
  


“The Armani? Are you serious?” Henry chirps, blue eyes sparkling with excitement as he abruptly scrambles out of bed, beating Alex out the door of their bedroom. 

  
  


Alex gives a snort before following him downstairs. In the light of the kitchen, Henry is a sight, adorably disheveled in his plaid pajama bottoms and NYU sweatshirt. 

  
  


Well, _Alex’s_ NYU sweatshirt. 

  
  


He pecks his boyfriend on the cheek before taking a seat across the way from him. “Whatever happened to sleeping in for howsoever long you please?” he teases. 

  
  


On the edge of the island, Alex’s coffee has gone lukewarm, and Henry wordlessly sticks it into the microwave. “Nothing,” Henry replies, returning to nurse his mug of tea. “I slept in. I decided I had enough.”

  
  


“Only after I bribed you with Giorgio Armani.”

  
  


“Oh, please. Not even Giorgio could keep me from getting my eight hours in.”

  
  


Alex raises an eyebrow at him. This asshole did _not_ just try to sell that. “Eight hours? Baby, you and I both know you’ve never gotten _eight hours_ of sleep in your entire life.”

  
  


“And _you’ve_ never gone eight hours without verbally assaulting me, but yes, _I’m_ the one with issues here,” Henry fires back, playful and groggy. 

  
  


Rolling his eyes, Alex grabs his cup from the microwave and takes a grateful sip. After living together for two years, the scent of cinnamon and coffee has started to remind him of Henry. It curls around him sweetly, like a steaming hug, and Alex is perfectly willing to let himself sink into it.

  
  


Henry grins at him, cool and tinted grey from the clouds outside, and they both sit contentedly in their little home. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


“You’ve got the flowers?” Henry questions, giving Alex a once over as they head out to the car. 

  
  


“No, Henry,” Alex deadpans, his right arm cradling a bouquet of purple orchids. 

  
  


“I’m just making sure,” Henry responds before he thanks Cash, who’s holding the door open to usher both of them in. “You’re the one that insisted we go, I’m only covering your arse.”

  
  


“And I’m grateful for that, sweetheart, but the only thing you should be focusing on is the gourmet American breakfast we are about to devour,” Alex replies, climbing after Henry into the backseat. 

  
  


“Only after we make an appearance in front of a few thousand people,” Henry shoots back with a pointed look, and it makes the guilt return to rest on Alex’s shoulders. 

  
  


Alex shuts his eyes, the fatigue from the early morning wakeup catching up to him. “I’m sorry, baby,” he says quietly. “I know you’re not a fan of crowds. I just wanted to do this one to help out with the foster care funding. It’ll be quick, Mom will just say a few words, and then we can stress eat the morning away.”

  
  


It wasn’t like Henry was the only one who was tired; Alex had been working himself to the bone lately on the law review board. There was always something more to be done, some case he had forgot to dig up or a paper due on a Friday night.

  
  


He loved the work, honestly, but despised the way it eclipsed the other parts of his life. There was no longer time to meet June for lunch every week, to help Henry at the shelter, to see much of his mom at all. 

  
  


Half of the time, Alex is holed up in the study, with his only social interaction coming from Henry’s consistent coffee and water deliveries and David, who enjoys napping at his feet under the desk. 

  
  


It’s draining as shit. Henry contemplates him softly, then intertwines their fingers together. 

  
  


Even though Alex knows his boyfriend can’t read minds, he thinks that sometimes the universe makes exceptions. He feels a kiss being pressed to his temple. 

  
  


“I know, love. I’m sorry to be such a bother. I’m glad we’re going.”

  
  


Buckling his seatbelt, Alex leans onto Henry’s shoulder, brown curls nestling into his neck. He feels Henry sigh, dropping down to rest his head on top of Alex’s, like always. 

  
  


Up front, Cash starts the ignition, the low rumble of the car engine nearly pulling both of them back to sleep. “You’re not a bother,” Alex murmurs, “Never a bother.” 

  
  


Somewhere between the first stop sign out of their neighborhood and the next, Alex nods off, content to let his mind settle against Henry’s shoulder. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


After a nearly four-hour drive down to D.C., Alex is finally standing by his mom behind the podium, listening in on her articulate rant about the state of the American foster care system. 

  
  


He looks out at the giant crowd gathered outside of the White House and feels lighter than he has in a while, thinking of all the kids they’re going to be helping with this fundraiser. For months, so much of his attention has been focused on school that there just wasn’t _room_ for anything else. He knows that getting his law degree is going to help people eventually, but Alex feels shitty knowing that he’s devoting more time to reading civil law textbooks than using his influence elsewhere. 

  
  


Henry nudges Alex’s shoulder, giving him a quick glance - _You okay?_ \- and Alex nods imperceptibly. 

  
  


He just feels off, is all. Probably the overthinking and borderline caffeine addiction catching up to him. Vaguely, he makes a mental note to switch to green tea for a couple of days. He knows Henry, the motherfucker, has a stash on top of the fridge just to keep him out. 

  
  


_(Thank God for stepladders.)_

  
  


And yet, even with the resolution to put the coffee guzzling on hold, Alex can’t shake the weird feeling in his gut. An anxiety, an edge. Like he’s missing something important. 

  
  


One moment he’s watching his mom, her gesticulating hands and the navy blue suit jacket she’s wearing today. He just now realizes that he’s got on a matching tie.

  
  


And the next, the air is shattered with a distinct, resonant _popping_ noise. 

  
  


And Alex jumps at the first, registers a little _Zip-thwick!_ in the wall behind him, and then there are screams as the sounds begin to multiply, and by the third bang, someone’s grabbing his suit by the lapels- 

  
  


He vaguely senses that that person is _Henry_ -

  
  


And Henry is yanking him onto the ground- 

  
  


And there’s more zipping overhead, peppering the stage with bullets-

  
  


_(Bullets,_ Alex thinks, just for a second, _Shit. Bullets.)_

  
  


And Alex just _crashes_ onto the floor-

  
  


And Henry’s not far behind-

  
  


He’s not-

  
  


And suddenly Alex feels one of those bullets just barely miss where he’s hit the stage, senses the force of it whizz by his head-

  
  


There’s a little _thunk_ where Henry is getting to the ground, and Alex’s heart constricts as Henry jolts like he’s had all the wind knocked out of him. 

  
  


“H?” he tries, voice strangely isolated in all the chaos around them. For just a second, Alex can look straight into Henry’s eyes, blown wide in the clearing mist.

  
  


_(Those blue, blue eyes, oh my God-)_

  
  


Then Henry’s collapsing on the floor next to him, lips parted in shock, touching the warm blood seeping from the middle of his suit with his fingertips.

  
  


“Shit!” Alex yells, moving his shaking hands over Henry’s abdomen. _"Shit!"_

  
  


There isn’t enough time for him to get his own suit jacket off before strong arms are pulling him up, dragging him by the elbow, and Alex can just barely register how Henry needs two Secret Service agents to usher him off the stage, a woman wrapping her arms around his shoulders and someone else helping to lift him up by the legs-

  
  


_Two,_ because Henry’s blood is spilling everywhere and he can’t do it on his own-

  
  


And then Alex is being shoved back through one of the White House entryways, the doors being slammed shut behind them as he stumbles onto the rough carpet. 

  
  


They’ve laid Henry down on the floor, and Alex doesn’t even know how he made his way over to him through the flurry of scuffling and black suits and shouting because the world is _ringing,_ absolutely ringing, but he’s there. Always right there.

  
  


“Henry, baby, look at me,” he chokes, touching his palm to Henry’s ashen face before jerkily sliding his suit jacket off. Henry’s eyes are still open wide, fluttering as fast as his shallow breathing. 

  
  


Alex shoves the blazer into Henry’s ribcage, trying to ignore the blood staining the sleeves of his button down, of the blood seeping onto the floor-

  
  


_"A-Alex,"_ Henry gasps, fumbling to hold onto Alex’s arm, the collar of his shirt, _anything,_ as his chest rises up and down erratically. His eyes start to well up, and Alex shushes him shakily. 

  
  


“It’s okay, you’re gonna be okay,” Alex manages through the lump in his throat. Henry locks his gaze onto him, clinging to his words. “You’re alright sweetheart, I promise, I promise, you’re gonna be alright.”

  
  


Cash hurries over to them both, kneeling between the huddle of Secret Service agents and the pool of deep crimson surrounding Henry’s body. _"Yellowtail is down,"_ he calls into his earpiece, _"Repeat, Yellowtail is down."_

  
  


He takes over where Alex is forcing the suit jacket into Henry’s middle, and Alex just crumples at the sight, has no idea how it could possibly be enough to stop _that much blood._

  
  


He takes Henry’s face into his hands. 

  
  


_"Alex,"_ Henry tries again, more forcefully this time. It comes out thick, his breaths just _rattling,_ and Alex can hear the gargle in his throat that must be-

  
  


“Baby, please don’t strain yourself-”

  
  


_"Alex,"_ he persists, “Love you. Love you. S’much.” Henry’s voice cracks toward the end, and he reaches out to place a sticky hand against Alex’s cheek, tears spilling out onto his face. 

  
  


Alex sobs, trying to cradle Henry as close as he can while giving Cash access to the wound. 

  
  


Henry’s wheezing now, horrible, grating inhales, and Alex vaguely senses the panicked commotion outside, realizing that they’re completely locked down. 

  
  


If the crease in Cash’s brow is anything to go by, Alex knows there won’t be any medics allowed in until the threat is contained.

  
  


_(God, please no. Please.)_

  
  


Henry’s eyes are frantically searching his own, and Alex feels a nauseous sway in his stomach at the amount of fear in them. He skims trembling fingers over Henry’s cheek. “I love you, honey, just hang on, okay? Just hang on for a few more minutes, you’re gonna be okay-” 

  
  


And as Alex is brushing his fingers through Henry’s hair, just like he did this morning _(W_ _as it this morning? Was it just this morning?),_ trying to bring him any comfort he can offer, he sees Henry’s chest start to stutter, giving little spasms as he fights to breathe, convulsing- 

  
  


His eyes fall shut, and Alex feels the grip slacken on his sleeve.

  
  


“Fuck!” Cash shouts, dropping his ear to Henry’s chest. _"Fu_ _cking shit! Get medical here now!"_

  
  


Looking back, Alex thinks he might have said Henry’s name, shouted it a few times. But there was only the pain, blinding and white, and nothing, nothing, _nothing_ made sense anymore. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


Alex doesn’t know how long he’s been pacing. 

  
  


Somewhere on the outskirts of his mind, he senses the sky darkening into nothingness through the windows and figures it’s probably been a few minutes. But he can’t fucking tell. 

  
  


A warm hand steadies him by the arm. He looks up, sees strawberry-blonde hair and bright eyes. He thinks it’s his mother. 

  
  


“Alex, honey. We’re gonna sit down now, okay? You’ve been at this all day, it’s time for a break.” 

  
  


And then he’s being guided into a chair, knees all but giving out as he finally stops his rounds. His mom rubs her hands up and down his back, pointlessly trying to soothe some of the tension there.

  
  


All of a sudden, there’s nothing to concentrate on anymore, nothing to put his mind to, and _oh,_ Alex has been waiting in the medical unit because his boyfriend was shot in an assassination attempt. 

  
  


He tastes bile rising up in the back of his throat, and June gets down in front of him, placing a hand on his knee. She barely grazes the area he skinned on the stage, and it stings faintly under his dress pants. 

  
  


_When he hit the stage, when Henry pulled him down, when Henry, when Henry, when Henry-_

  
  


“You gotta drink something,” June orders gently. She cracks open a plastic water bottle, angles it toward his face. 

  
  


Alex blanches at the thought of trying to choke anything down right now. June, sensing his apprehension, sticks the water bottle into his hand. 

  
  


He grips it unsteadily. 

  
  


“Henry’s going to be fine, Alex,” she whispers, eyes boring into his, which are red-rimmed and perpetually unfocused. 

  
  


He tries to listen to her, he really does. But the world still doesn’t sound right, like everything is dull and muffled when He’s not around. Alex wonders if it’ll ever go back to normal again. 

  
  


June pushes on. “Henry’s been through so much shit already, he’s stronger than a tiny fucking bullet, okay? So much stronger. He’s gonna be okay.”

  
  


And isn’t that true? Hasn’t Henry endured more than most could imagine?

  
  


Being stuck in that godforsaken palace his entire life, never being able to say what he felt, or love who he wanted. Never being able to find comfort in his mother, and for a time his sister, while he watched his dad’s body and mind deteriorate. Carrying on as if nothing was wrong.

  
  


Henry was so alone for so long. And he lived.

  
  


But Alex still can’t fight the feeling that he’s going to be dead very, very soon. 

  
  


Apparently when it happened, the first few shots were so quick that the news channels didn’t even have time to cut the broadcast. Philip was actually the first one to call, wrecked and sobbing through Alex’s phone, because he and Martha were out for lunch when he saw his brother get shot on live television. 

  
  


Alex refuses to look at any of the TVs around the White House, and frankly, he’s not allowed to. 

  
  


He’s seen enough blood for one day. 

  
  


Bea had called five minutes later, asking stoically if Alex was alright, if his mom and June had been hit, too, and no, it was just Henry, just her little brother on the operating table. Her voice began to waver then, and Alex vaguely heard her say that she and her mom would be getting on a plane as soon possible before hanging up.

  
  


He’s thinking about her, hoping she’ll be arriving in the next few hours or so, when Dr. Rivera makes his way down the hall. 

  
  


Everyone bolts to their feet - June, Zahra, Amy, all the advisors and agents come to deal with the aftermath of an attempt on the president’s life - but Alex stays planted, hunched over in his chair. 

  
  


He’s in a new shirt now, since the last one had been scuffed up and soaked with Henry’s blood, but he still sees red all over. 

  
  


Logically, Alex knows this is important, that this is what he’s been waiting for all day, the reason why he’s been falling apart at the seams, and he should get up and listen too, but he can’t move. 

  
  


If Henry’s dead, he doesn’t want to hear it. He doesn’t ever want to hear it. 

  
  


“Madam President,” he begins. Alex wants to look up, see the expression on his face, see if he can sense the news he’s about to give them, but he can’t tear his eyes away from the floor. 

  
  


His hands begin to tremble. 

  
  


“The bullet shattered one of Prince Henry’s ribs upon impact and lodged itself in his right lung. We were able to remove it, but his lung collapsed on the table and resulted in major blood loss and cerebral hypoxia.” He pauses, carefully gathering his words. “He had already lost a lot of blood before we began the operation. I’m so sorry, but it’s unlikely he’ll live through tomorrow.”

  
  


Everything goes quiet. 

  
  


Alex can feel something twist and fracture deep under his sternum, but he’s so far away, so detached from it all that he might as well be standing outside on the White House lawn. He thinks there might be eyes on him, hands on his shoulders, touching his arm, his face. 

  
  


He stays there for a few seconds more, staring at the carpet, which is a patterned shade of burgundy, and it looks crisp and fine, freshly steamed. It makes his vision blurry, makes everything start to fade and swirl together, and he wonders distantly if it’s the rug or the tears that’s morphing the world this way. 

  
  


It isn’t until his mom cups his cheek, faintly, turns his head to meet her eyes, and she’s crying, that his soul snaps back into his body. 

  
  


He jerks out of his chair, swallowing back the lump in his throat that’s about to tear him apart. Half of his family is following him down the hall, he knows this, but he keeps walking away, refusing to let any of it go, because the second he does, he’s going to have to feel it, and that would just sweep Alex away forever. 

  
  


So he lets his feet carry him down the corridors, feels his hands throw open the exit to the garden. Someone’s yelling now behind him, maybe Zahra or June, but it doesn’t matter. The night is cold and dim under the late-January snow, and Alex is grabbing onto a tree like it’s a buoy here to save him from the storm.

  
  


His breath comes out in a huff of mist, and in the back of Alex’s mind, he’s thinking it’s not _a_ tree. 

  
  


It’s the tree. The tree.

  
  


He thinks of Henry’s lips sliding against his own, warm and soft against the freezing midnight sky, and that’s when Alex can’t hold on any longer. 

  
  


The sob rips through his chest, and Alex knows he won’t be coming up for air again. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


When Alex drifts back into consciousness, the first thing he notices is the line of folding chairs he’s apparently been sleeping on.

  
  


The second thing he notices is Henry, lying across the room in a hospital bed.

  
  


He jolts at the sight, and June grabs a hold of his shoulders, shushing him. “Hey, it’s okay, it’s okay,” she whispers. 

  
  


His neck aches from resting in her lap, but he can’t look away, not from the ventilator strapped to Henry’s mouth or the thick bandages over his middle. It’s like he’s a wax figure, detailed and solid and taking up space, but at the same time so unreal. 

  
  


Alex’s heart pounds with a fury, making a racket in the hollowness of his chest. June squeezes his shoulder gently and speaks soft into his hair. “We just didn’t want you to fall asleep for too long. Henry’s fine.”

  
  


The unspoken _for now_ falls heavy in the air between them, and Alex wonders how he hasn’t been crushed by the weight of it all yet. 

  
  


But Henry’s here. He’s right here. And Alex can’t tear his gaze away. 

  
  


He sits up, and June immediately shoves him the water bottle from earlier. “Alex, I love you, but I swear to God, if you don’t drink something right now, I’m going to call one of the nurses in here to give you a goddamn IV.” 

  
  


The thought of putting anything in his stomach right now makes his head spin, but Alex takes a few sips anyway. He’d rather choke down a Crystal Geyser than pass out from dehydration and risk missing any more time. 

  
  


Time. It’s still dark outside, with the only exception coming from the pale snow on the lawn, a reflection of the moon and a few of the emergency brights. 

  
  


He figures the main White House lights have been turned off. For him.

  
  


“June, what time is it?” Alex mumbles, leaning back so his head touches the wall. His temples are pounding, like someone’s taking a pick and stabbing his brain over and over again. 

  
  


She sighs, picking at her nail polish, deep purple and chipped to all hell. “Half past two. Bea and Catherine came in a couple of hours ago while you were knocked out. They’re washing up now.” 

  
  


Alex nods. He tries to keep his breathing slow and light, count to four on the inhale, but it comes out shaky anyway. “Did, um… Did the doctor give any more updates while I was asleep?”

  
  


He knows the answer before June deflates, her head drooping almost imperceptibly. “No, Alex,” she confesses. “I’m sorry.”

  
  


They both stare at Henry, who’s looking positively fucked up under the bed sheets. There are more wires coming out of him that Alex has the capacity to count right now, and his oxygen mask produces a stream of low, white noise through the room. He imagines that little whirring noise is what Hell sounds like.

  
  


But still Alex thinks that, even if Henry looks understandably like he’s been run over by a train, there’s somehow an air of dignity to him. Princeliness.

  
  


For the longest time, Alex thought it was ridiculous how Henry could appear put together and respectable and _royal,_ even after just waking up, or falling off a horse, or getting the shit kissed out of him. Sometimes he thinks that even God himself couldn’t make Henry look embarrassing. You could throw that man in a washing machine and he’d come out looking ready for a _Vogue_ photo shoot at the beach.

  
  


It shouldn’t be possible to have so much easy charm and confidence. They must have done some secret British voodoo magic on him as a baby to make his posture as straight as it was, his smiles as golden as they were. Are. 

  
  


But focusing on him now - the locks of his hair, bordering on greasy and swooping down over his forehead, lashes fanned out darkly across bruised skin - Alex understands that there was no magic involved in Henry’s dignity, which is impenetrable. It’s just him. 

  
  


Henry is, in his most messed up and vulnerable state, a work of art. And Alex loves every line and curve of it. Forever. 

  
  


He gets up slowly, makes his way over to the bed and hovers near Henry, letting his fingertips brush against his cheekbone. It’s impossibly soft under his touch, as if he’s running his hands over silk instead of a person. His person.

  
  


June rises from her seat, places a blanket gingerly near the foot of Henry’s bed. “That’s for you, if you’re going to stay. Bea and her mom should be back up soon.” She places a hand delicately on Alex’s back. He shifts his gaze over to her, and they share a look that says everything Alex’s words have missed tonight. 

  
  


“Just call me if anything happens, okay? I’m going to bed. Love you.” 

  
  


* * *

  
  


Alex has taken to gripping his necklace tight alongside Henry’s hand. It reminds him of the rosaries his grandparents used to have in Texas, with his house key and Henry’s signet ring resting together to make the cross. 

  
  


He grazes his thumb back and forth across Henry’s knuckles, feeling the skin there, thinner than he’s ever known. The veins run purple, and Alex brings his lips to the cool tint of Henry’s hand. 

  
  


_How very gentlemanly of you,_ Henry would say. _How very chivalrous. And sexual._

  
  


Alex almost manages a smile, but it dies with the continual sight of Henry, who’s too injured and outright unconscious to share the grin with him. 

  
  


He brushes a strand of hair out of Henry’s face, ghosting over the forehead that he’s kissed so many times over. If there weren’t so many tubes poking out of him, Alex would curl up right next to Henry, breathe him in, touch his lips to that forehead until he divines Henry’s soul and carries it back into his body. 

  
  


It’s nearing 4 am, now. Bea and Catherine have knocked out on a couple of cots on the floor, probably exhausted from hearing the news and flying eight hours to get here. He can see the tension in their brows, their posture, sense it suffocating them in their dreams, which he knows must be fitful and blue. 

  
  


Like the ocean. Like Henry.

  
  


Alex almost wishes he could be that tired so he wouldn’t have to endure it all. So that he wouldn’t have to see the dregs of Henry’s energy draining out or the constant fucking beeping of his heart rate from the monitor, thready and high and close to making Alex’s ears bleed.

  
  


But there’s no going to sleep now. Maybe not ever again.

  
  


He takes a deep breath, all the way in until his ribcage aches from the pressure. 

  
  


And he starts.

  
  


“Hi, sweetheart,” he chokes. Already, Alex feels something hard jump into his throat, but he just grabs Henry’s hand a little harder, uses whatever is left of him to push on. Even now, Henry is still holding him up, reassuring him that it’s gonna be okay.

  
  


What a fucking trooper.

  
  


“They, um.” He sniffles, swallowing hard until the words can claw their way out. “They gave us some pretty shitty news earlier. Understatement of the century, I know, but I don’t know how else to put it.”

  
  


Henry’s chest keeps rising and falling, giving tiny shudders here and there that Alex wishes he could soothe away. 

  
  


“Baby, I- I don’t think I ever told you how much you mean to me. Not fully. I’m sure you thought you knew, because you’re kind of a stubborn shithead when it comes to that kind of stuff, but you can’t even imagine.” 

  
  


And Alex is at a loss for words again, because he was never the creative one. He could tailor speeches until thousands of people burst into applause, charm politicians with nothing but the sharp edge of his tongue and the proud set of his shoulders - but when it came to how he felt, Alex wasn’t very eloquent. 

  
  


Not in the way he wanted, anyway. Not with all the million things swirling around his head at any given time. He had to be concise - parse out the information that would give him a headache and work with whatever was left. 

  
  


Alex didn’t do poetry. That was Henry’s job. 

  
  


But he remembers the one time he managed. Two years ago, when he thought Luna had betrayed the campaign and it tore apart everything Alex had ever believed in. When he and Henry were still hiding, still trying to find a way to cover up the truth, _their_ truth, and Alex was drowning underneath the lies and hurt and everything in between.

  
  


The corner of Henry’s mouth. It’s disappeared now, covered by the oxygen mask fixed securely around his head, but if Alex concentrates hard enough, he can see it sprawled out in front of him. Every ridge, every bend and edge and turn of it. 

  
  


He knows Henry’s heart. And that’ll be enough. 

  
  


“I’ve spent so much of my life just looking at you, Henry. I’ve poured over your face in magazines and kissed your chest while you fell asleep. I’ve called you in the middle of the night just to get a glimpse of your smile. You always start grinning first, like you’re trying to hold it in, but then it breaks, and your eyes crinkle at the corners, like you can’t even believe it, like you’ve never been so happy in your life. Henry, baby, your smile is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” 

  
  


Alex sniffles and shifts their fingers tighter together, the familiar sensation of Henry’s hand grounding him in the room.

  
  


“I wish you could feel that happy all the time. You deserve it. I know you never thought you did, but you deserve it. I’d give the world to you in my hands if you’d be willing to take it from me.” 

  
  


His gaze flits back to the necklace in his grip, Alex’s two homes twisted in between their joined fingers like an infinite loop of hills and dips and valleys. He wants to take Henry on a stroll down it, see his face glow tranquil and soft in the moonlight. 

  
  


But Henry’s sleeping now. Maybe they can visit it some other time.

  
  


Alex pushes on, even though the tears are coming down now in earnest. “I just- I just see myself dancing with you. All the time. I dream of it, I dream of your arms around me at the V&A, and even when you’re right there next to me, I just always want you and our goddamn Elton John song. And I can’t fucking imagine what life might be like without you, and I don’t want it, I don’t want to suffer one second in a world where you’re not in it. If you have to go, I know I shouldn’t keep you, and it’s probably selfish of me to ask you to stay, but goddamn it, you’re breaking my _heart,_ Henry.” 

  
  


His voice just _crumbles_ then, and he’s choking back the pain so hard in an effort to stay quiet, it radiates through his whole sternum. Everything’s too blurry now to see properly, so Alex thinks of Henry, always Henry, of him languidly peppering kisses to Alex’s collarbone in bed and nipping at his ear and telling him that this is where he belongs, right over Alex’s heart.

  
  


“God, you’re just- you’re a fucking asshole, Henry, an obtuse fucking asshole, and I hate you, but I really _fuckin_ _g love you_ and I need you to stay. Please, please baby, please just stay.”

  
  


When Bea and Catherine inevitably wake up to the sound of Alex weeping, he doesn’t have the energy to feel remorseful. He just lets them hold him steady, with both of them crying hopelessly into his hair, and feels the sobs wrack his body. 

  
  


The sun’s just coming up over the horizon when Henry goes into cardiac arrest.

  
  


* * *

  
  


If Alex clutches the toilet bowl any harder, he thinks it might actually shatter. 

  
  


He’s been sitting in this cramped position on the tile floor for God knows how long, but the last couple of heaves have been nothing but bile. He’d probably be grossed out at the thought of his cheek resting against an actual toilet lid if he wasn’t running on zero hours of sleep and the two sips of water June force fed him earlier.

  
  


The ensuite bathroom is gradually filling with sharp white, the snowy sky glaring through the windows. It feels like Alex is in a different plane of existence - like he woke up in purgatory and is wading his way through the silvery emptiness.

Out of the corner of his eye, he can make out Bea’s shape on Henry’s now vacant bed, curled up in the fetal position. Her hands are clamped tight over her ears, as if it’ll do something to block out all the anxiety and grief. 

  
  


Alex has never seen her like this before - completely unraveled and ready to slip right out of the world. He supposes Henry is the only person capable of hitting Bea where it hurts, and the thought sends him into another round of gagging. 

  
  


He’s squeezing his eyes shut and panting like a marathon runner when his mom walks in. 

  
  


“Hey, honey.” She’s using her Comforting Mom voice, something neither Alex nor June have gotten to hear very much since they turned old enough to wipe their own asses. It runs over him like a warm ocean tide, and Alex has never minded Ellen Claremont’s unwavering professionalism, no, he admires it more than anything, but sometimes.

  
  


Sometimes he just wants his mom.

  
  


All of a sudden he’s crying again, as if there are any liquids left in him to do so, and she’s on the floor with him, cradling his head to her chest. He can hear her heart beating through the material of her blazer, and it reminds him of Henry’s heartbeat, coming fast and slow and sometimes not at all, and Alex starts to hyperventilate. 

  
  


She pulls him tighter, shielding him from all the people congregated in Henry’s room. “Breathe, Alex. In for four, out for eight. Shh, honey, you’re okay. He’s okay.”

  
  


“No, he’s not,” Alex chokes, his heart seizing. “He’s gonna die, Mom, I can’t fucking do this, he’s gonna die-”

  
  


_"Alex."_ She’s grabbing his face now, forcing him to look at her through bloodshot eyes. “Henry is fine. They got his heart under control, everything is stable, it’s all fine.”

  
  


Alex clings onto the fierce expression on her face, knowing that it’s the same one that demolished opponents in the Supreme Court, ripped apart greedy old dickheads in the Senate like they were wrapping paper. 

  
  


He swallows. “Is he gonna survive?”

  
  


She skims a thumb over his face, brushes a curl away from his eyes. “I don’t know, Alex. But Dr. Rivera said that if he’s going to wake up, it’ll be soon.” 

  
  


The _if_ settles deep in his stomach, curling up and draining the last of his energy away. Alex screws his eyes shut again, tears falling involuntarily down his face. “I just- I can’t, Mom. I can’t, I can’t watch him die, it’s too much-”

  
  


“Sugar, listen to me,” she demands, and he does everything he can to calm down, breathe through his collapsing chest. “I don’t know if he’ll make it. Not for sure. But I do know that he made it through the entire night _and_ came out of heart surgery with steady vitals like the goddamn prince he is. And I also know that he needs you. Right now. He needs you with him, right by his side, not hunched over on the bathroom floor.”

  
  


Shakily, painfully, he looks up at her.

  
  


“You have to be there, Alex.” She cradles his face, wipes it clean like she did when he was younger and more prone to feeling everything bad all at once. The thought makes his crying hurt even worse. “Henry’s putting up a fight. You can’t leave him all alone to get his ass kicked. It’s bad manners.” 

  
  


“Mom-”

  
  


“Just go sit next to him. Zahra’s bringing up some chicken noodle soup, because I know your self-destructive ass hasn’t touched a piece of food in the entire time you’ve been here, and you’re gonna go be with Henry and tell him that he’s got this. I want you to keep talking to him, okay? Let him know that you’re here, that you’ve got him, and that he’s gonna be okay.” 

  
  


Alex burrows his watery eyelids into the crook of her neck, letting her take some of the weight that’s been burying him under for the last 24 hours. His stomach lurches under another wave of nausea.

  
  


One of Alex’s favorite things about Henry is his complete and utter inability to be selfish. Not in the way that everyone expects, with the politeness, and the generosity - although Henry certainly lived up to those, too. 

  
  


It’s more about the little things. 

  
  


Making a run to the shelter at 3 am just because he heard Del mention they were a couple of blankets short. Murmuring French nursery rhymes to Philip and Martha’s baby for two hours straight, even though Philip had been an asshole to him earlier, just so they might catch up on some rest. Offering to speak instead of Bea during the charity events and formal dinners, regardless of how uncomfortable it made him, because he didn’t want the tabloids to grab a hold of her again.

  
  


Henry had the resilience of a saint when it came to the people he loved. But at the same time, it killed him. 

  
  


The late nights Henry would spend lulling Alex to sleep, snotty and upset from catching the flu; the early mornings making smoothies and breakfast so Alex would have something to eat before his run. Even if he was exhausted, debilitated, dead on his feet. 

  
  


Henry was always there.

  
  


And he’d refuse help, refuse to stop until his mental health eventually caught up with him, as it does every time, and Alex would have to scoop him up and piece him back together. Lay down, wrap his arms around Henry’s torso until he could bear to allow any more thoughts in his head.

  
  


Now Alex is the weary one, and Henry needs him.

  
  


So that’s his decision made, isn’t it?

  
  


He untangles himself from his mom’s arms, pushes up on wobbly legs. The room tilts violently upon standing, and Alex has to grip the edge of the sink to keep himself from passing out. 

  
  


“Where is he?” he groans, head pulsating.

  
  


She gestures to the doorway. “Down the hall, in the ICU. Pez, Shaan, everybody’s there, you won’t miss it.” 

  
  


Alex stumbles out into the main corridor, accidentally clips his shoulder on a passing Secret Service agent. Hazily, he picks up on his mother shouting from behind him: “And Christ on a Ritz, if you don’t get some goddamn sleep soon, I will not _hesitate_ to have my security team forcibly sedate you.”

* * *

  
  


If it’s possible, Alex thinks he and Bea look even worse than Henry does. And Henry looks like shit.

  
  


She’s sprawled out on a seat next to Henry’s hospital bed, dark boots swung lazily onto another chair. “There you are,” she greets drowsily from across the room. Her eyebags are decidedly un-princesslike, but Alex knows his are probably twice as dark. 

  
  


He perches on the edge near Henry’s feet, facing away from him and the ventilator down his windpipe and the tint of his skin, which is bordering on ghastly. Instead, he focuses his attention out the window, trying to count the number of trees on the lawn and diplomats bustling down the halls. He can’t get past the number five. “Hi Bea. How are you guys holding up?” 

  
  


She turns to stare at him, deadpan. “Just wonderfully, Alex.” 

  
  


“Sorry. Sorry,” he mutters, massaging his temples roughly. “I just haven’t slept and I’m running on half a granola bar from yesterday morning.” 

  
  


Bea hands him a sweaty styrofoam container from the nightstand. The contents slosh around heavily in his grasp. “Here. Zahra dropped it off earlier. I already had a bowl.”

  
  


He pops the lid off, inhales the steam of the chicken noodle soup his mom promised. It makes him feel like a little kid again, like he’s sick and the only thing that touches the discomfort of it all is a bowl of Campbell’s. 

  
  


He wishes he was just sick. 

  
  


“She didn’t want to stick around,” Bea adds, tugging at Henry’s bedsheet absentmindedly. “Something about tending to a presidential assassination attempt and avoiding your sleep-deprived arse.”

  
  


Alex rolls his eyes half-heartedly before digging in. He knows Zahra puts up the farce of not giving a shit about him, but in reality, it just stresses her out to see him when he’s in these modes. Midterms, mock trials, fatal gunshot wounds - they all make Alex forget to take care of himself.

  
  


“Where’s your mom?” he questions through a mouthful of noodles. 

  
  


“Trying to hunt down a bag of tea in this infernal place,” she jokes. “All you crazy American politicians do is drink coffee and start oil wars.”

  
  


Incredibly, Alex cracks a smile. “Oh, please, my mom hasn’t so much as touched a foreign oil rig since the inauguration. It’s you bastards that are stinking up the place.”

  
  


“Are _not."_

  
  


“I’m sorry, are we forgetting the time your country _literally_ colonized the land we’re sitting on?” 

  
  


Bea scoffs, leaning back confidently. “As if you didn’t readily participate in it. Does Mr. Andrew Jackson ring a bell, maybe? No? How about James K. Polk? He was a touchy one.” 

  
  


Alex kicks her shin playfully, glad to find the distraction in her company. “I think we can agree that both of our countries have been greedy, genocidal assholes, and it would do the world good if they were dissolved.”

  
  


“Certainly.”

  
  


A silence washes over the room then, Bea staring at her black combat boots and Alex finishing off the last of his soup. Henry loves dragging the name of his homeland in the mud during conversations like this; it seems wrong to be joking around right in front of him without his usual snarky input, all tousled hair and amused grinning.

  
  


Bea cuts through the quiet, her voice more subdued this time. “When, um. When Mum and I got the call, I didn’t know what to do with myself. It felt like… It felt like it was Dad all over again, you know? Just twice as fast and even more painful, because I’d already gone through this before. I thought, if Henry dies, there’s no point to it anymore.”

  
  


And Alex understands her words at the center of his being, because he knows what it’s like to love someone like Henry. To unconditionally, unequivocally, love him. 

  
  


He nudges their feet together again, urging her on.

  
  


“But I gathered myself up,” she continues, taking Henry’s hand and playing around with their fingers. “It was hard getting Mum on the plane, because she looked about ready to shut down again, but I made it work. Because Henry would have wanted it that way.”

  
  


And Alex doesn’t want it to be true - the fact that Henry would want them all to move on, get past the sadness and keep living without him - but he knows she’s right. 

  
  


There are a million things Alex would rather do before saying goodbye, before letting Henry go off to wherever it is that he needs to be. But Alex recognizes, deep below all the jagged layers of his heart, that he’s willing to do whatever Henry wants. 

  
  


Even though they’ve fought, even though Alex is an unyielding son of a bitch with a fire under his ass for no reason - underneath it all, he’s always been this way.

  
  


He reaches a hand out to run his thumb across Henry’s ankle. Keeps looking at him, gives a deep sigh.

  
  


“You could probably lay down next to him, if you’d like,” Bea offers gently. “There’s enough space.” She gestures to the spot by Henry’s side, the one that doesn’t contain a bullet wound or a collapsed lung. 

  
  


Alex considers this. Regards Henry with all of his tubes and contraptions and labored breathing. 

  
  


And Alex thinks he looks cold, being there on the bed all by himself, and then he’s moving some of the wires out of the way so he can curl right up into the place where Henry’s neck meets his shoulder. 

  
  


It’s familiar, and safe, and Alex tilts his head up to kiss Henry’s jaw before drifting off to sleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi thank you for reading!! pls let me know what you thought :)))


	2. run, forrest, run

Alex wakes up to the feeling of someone running a hand through his hair.

  
  


He doesn’t know how long he’s been out, just that he can feel thin rays of sun gleaming through the windows and dancing over his nose. It must’ve been a full day since he fell asleep in Henry’s-

  
  


Holy shit. 

  
  


Instantly, Alex is snapping his neck up to see who the _fuck_ is stroking his hair, because Bea’s not the touchy type, and Catherine wasn’t even here the last time he checked, and the only other fucking person in the room is-

  
  


His eyes meet Henry’s, sleepy and blue, and the world stills in its rotation. 

  
  


“Oh my God,” Alex breathes, scrambling up frantically. His heart has swelled up into his throat, drumming a mile a minute, so rapidly he fears he might actually have a stroke. “O-Oh my God, _baby,_ _you’re awake-”_

  
  


And he’s touching Henry all over, jumpy and feather-light, like he doesn’t know where to start first, because _holy fuck_ he stayed, he came back to him, this is real-

  
  


_(Is this real?)_

  
  


There’s an exhaustion to Henry’s appearance that’s so palpable, one that he can’t communicate over the tube down his windpipe. Alex can almost feel it pulling him, ruthlessly, dragging Henry down by the hair. 

  
  


But at the same time, he recognizes the glint in his eyes. It’s the one he saves for when they’re alone, when the day hasn’t yet begun, and Henry takes a good look at Alex and whispers, privately-

  
  


_I adore you._

  
  


And he’s just _bawling_ because Henry is cupping his jaw like he always does - tenderly, in a way that Alex never, _never_ thought he’d be able to feel again. 

  
  


He doesn’t know how long they stay there, just grazing their fingers over each other while Alex cries his fucking eyes out. But it doesn’t matter. 

  
  


_(You came back to me.)_

  
  


Henry’s thumb is skimming gently over the shadow of Alex’s stubble when Bea stirs in her chair, no doubt disturbed by all of Alex’s fussing, and stumbles over to them with a shout: “Fucking hell, Henry!” 

  
  


Raw and disoriented, she’s tripping over wires and tossing her blanket haphazardly to the floor. And she tries to be tough, tries to hold it all together for them, as is customary with the Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor children - but the second Henry’s gaze meets her own, Bea falls apart. 

  
  


Inevitably. Completely. 

  
  


Then it’s the three of them, all huddled up and teary-eyed on the hospital bed, clutching onto one another on top of the covers. Henry holds the both of them close, protectively, as if they’re the ones fending off death, as if they’re the ones who need the most comfort. Alex vaguely finds himself thinking that it’s true.

  
  


Because this is the part of Alex that no one else gets to see. The one burrowed deep underneath every barrier, every façade he’s ever put up in his life solely for the purpose of pleasing other people. 

  
  


Alex needs Henry.

  
  


Not in the sense that he couldn’t survive without him. Alex has been dumped by the bastard, flown thousands of miles over the Atlantic just to be told to leave, watched Henry’s breath stop short in his lungs. He’s been pushed away by him before, dismissed, and every second of it was agonizing, and brutal, and he never wants to do it again- 

  
  


But he could. If Henry wanted.

  
  


Alex would survive well enough on his own. He’s a Claremont-Diaz, for fuck’s sake; he and June were hand-crafted to thrive on independence, to fight for their place in the world. To never back down from a challenge. 

  
  


Alex would be fine. 

  
  


But he and Henry had agreed to something, that one misty afternoon in London. When they were tangled under the cream-colored bed sheets and the weight of their entire, undetermined future. When Henry looked Alex in the eyes and told him firmly, resolutely, that fine wasn’t good enough.

  
  


So as Alex rests his head above Henry’s collarbone, runs his fingers in circles over the pulsepoint on Henry’s wrists, every tiny surge of blood that is so _precious_ and invaluable, he’s thinking, _I’m going to spend the rest of my life with you._

  
  


The realization finally clears the mess that is Alex’s head, and he peers up at Henry, just to get another glimpse of him.

  
  


His brow furrows when he sees that Henry’s got his eyes closed, visibly trying to steady his breathing. “Baby, are you okay?” Alex asks thickly, running his fingers over Henry’s temple. “Is it the vent?”

  
  


Henry nods stiffly, inhaling deep and fumbling for Alex’s arm for support. 

  
  


“I should go get the doctor,” Bea offers on the other side of the bed, prying herself gradually from Henry’s embrace. She plants a kiss to her brother’s head, ruffles his hair softly. “I love you. I’ll be back in a bit, okay?” 

  
  


On the way out, she throws a glance back at Alex, a silent request - _Look after him?_

  
  


And Alex can’t think of one situation where he might refuse. 

  
  


She disappears into the hall, and Alex turns back to Henry, still in disbelief that he’s awake, that he’s _here-_

  
  


_(That he’s not dead.)_

  
  


And Henry’s really got a vice grip on Alex’s forearm, his breaths coming in a bit faster, stronger. “Hey, hey. Shh,” Alex murmurs, letting his lips rest in the smooth spot of hair above Henry’s ear. 

  
  


Henry tips his head back against the pillow, staring at the ceiling in an attempt to relax. Alex nestles closer, rubs his hand up and down Henry’s shoulder to soothe out the tension. “You’re alright. Want me to get you something to write on so we can talk?”

  
  


Another nod. Alex moves to step out of the bed, but then Henry’s pulling him back slightly, right at the last second. He stares at him with those big doe-eyes, trying to ask him something that the ventilator won’t allow. 

  
  


Alex feels a pang in his chest at the sight, suddenly hyper-aware of the fact that Henry was _shot,_ well and truly shot, and all of the ramifications it might mean for him. Not just physically, but mentally too. 

  
  


He settles back in, careful not to jostle the bed too much, and reaches to cup his hands just under Henry’s jaw. Feeling him slacken a bit under his touch, Alex strokes his thumb across Henry’s cheek, barely grazing the strap that’s keeping the oxygen supply secured onto his face. He tilts their foreheads together.

  
  


“It’s okay, sweetheart,” Alex whispers, achingly. “I’ve got you.” 

  
  


Henry’s lashes flutter shut and he holds onto Alex, as best as he can with his broken ribs and beaten lung. It’s tearing Alex up to see Henry this way, in any state other than happy and calm and _safe,_ but he just keeps thanking God that they didn’t lose him. 

  
  


The thought of it intrudes on his hazy state of relief, and he shoves it down, smothers the last couple of days under the feeling of Henry’s skin on his own. It hurts too much to even think about it, to entertain what might have been. The world’s shitty enough without a gaping, Henry-shaped hole in it. 

  
  


_(“Most things are awful most of the time, but you’re good.”)_

  
  


With that, Alex lifts his head from its resting place, and takes his time to press kiss after kiss to Henry’s face. One right on the crown of his hair, still satiny and light on his lips. Another at the top of his cheek, and the next on the tip of his nose, precise and delicate, like Henry might shatter if he’s nudged too hard. 

  
  


“I love you,” Alex breathes, laying the faintest of kisses right below Henry’s brow, just over his eyelid. He feels Henry’s breathing even out beneath him, the rhythm on the heart monitor slowing down to a crawl. “You’re okay. I love you. I love you so much.” 

  
  


It’s an out of body experience, kissing Henry all over. A sanctification of all the horrible, unspeakable things that have happened to them both, like Alex could draw out every fear and anguish in Henry’s mind and replace it with something warm. 

  
  


The door sounds from across the way, heavy and flinging open in a rush, and Alex bolts up like a teenager being caught in the dirty. Henry seems to snap out of a trance, ears glowing pink as the day he was born, and then they’re met by a flurry of concerned nurses and doctors and anyone else qualified enough to fuss over his boyfriend.

  
  


There’s a cacophony of chatter, medical professionals hustling from table to table, and suddenly Alex is being ushered out of the bed. A stout blonde woman gives firm orders of “Please, Mr. Claremont-Diaz, if you could step outside, we need to start running some tests-” 

  
  


And he’s ready to clear out, to give them all the space they need to make sure that Henry’s okay - but Henry’s grip is tensing up again on the sleeve of his sweater. He’s looking up at Alex with thinly veiled panic, like he wants something, _something,_ and Alex thinks he needs to figure it out right this fucking second or he might go feral. 

  
  


“Baby, what is it?” It’s hard to speak over the sound of sterile plastic being ripped open, nurses deftly comparing notes at the foot of the bed, but Henry still hears him.

  
  


Because he’s listening, of course, he’s always listening. And he takes Alex’s hand and brings it to his chest, then sets it gently there, right over the bandages.

  
  


_Oh._

  
  


His heart is just hammering, devastatingly fast under Alex’s palm, and Alex realizes, dumbly, that Henry wants him to stay.

  
  


“Oh, sweetheart, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” he chokes, his entire being just _burning_ at the thought of leaving him like this. Alex brings his other hand up to cradle Henry’s head, showering his face with kisses. Like if he holds him close enough, if he loves him enough, he can make it better. “I won’t be far, okay? I promise, I _promise,_ if you need me, I’ll come right back.” 

  
  


The nurse asks again, this time with less patience, for Alex to leave the room. And he sees Henry draw himself up in the way he’s had to do his entire life - straighten his back, jut his chin out, steel himself for whatever’s about to come, because he has no choice. 

  
  


Perfection. He has to be perfection.

  
  


There’s the side of Henry that he feels comfortable with sharing. The one that’s strong and collected and smiles at the cameras, fake and dazzling white. It’s the side he’s letting out now, and it allows him to release Alex’s arm, sit up stubbornly in the hospital bed.

  
  


But Alex can see straight through any wall Henry throws up between them. No matter how securely Henry locks himself away, Alex is there to kick the door down. And sometimes it’s dark, and it’s ugly, and Alex has to watch how everything withers.

  
  


As Henry grips a handful of the bedsheet, trying to stop the shaking. When his eyes glaze over, because now it’s all gotten to be Too Much, but he can’t do anything to stop it. 

  
  


Alex sees Henry. All of him. 

  
  


It’s why, in the bustling commotion of the hospital room, Alex pulls his necklace off. Feels the weight of his old house key and Henry’s signet ring in his grasp as they clink intimately together, like two little bells in the sunlight. 

  
  


Henry observes intently as Alex pulls his hand from the bed sheet and presses the necklace into his palm. “Here,” he whispers, closing Henry’s fingers around it. Henry gazes back up at him, eyes glassy and upset but so, so trusting. Alex kisses his knuckles. “You hold onto this, okay? That way, you’ll know I’m coming back.”

  
  


There’s a beat where Henry just stares, studying Alex’s face like it’s one of his worn-out Jane Auesten books. Then he gives the slightest of nods, still holding the necklace tight, and Alex steps out of the room before the nurses can jab a tranquilizer into his neck or something. 

  
  


Everyone’s gathered outside in the waiting room, which is jarringly lush and illuminated by the mid-morning sun. Alex’s dad jumps up to meet him, smiling with those familiar deep brown eyes. “There you are, mijo.”

  
  


For a second, Alex allows himself to breathe - to let his father’s arms engulf him, sturdy and grounding. Holding him up.

  
  


“Hi, Dad,” he mutters into his shoulder, resting his head on the blue cotton flannel. It’s comfortingly soft, and smells like home - oak trees and summer days and glass liquor bottles at the lake. 

  
  


“Hey, is it true?” his dad asks, tilting Alex’s chin up to meet his gaze. “Is Henry okay?”

  
  


And Alex doesn’t really know how to answer that question.

  
  


His eyes flicker over the people sitting outside of Henry’s hospital room - Philip and Martha, fresh off the plane and looking worse for wear; Nora and June, sharing worried glances on the velvet settee; even Shaan is trilling his fingers anxiously over a canister of coffee. They’re all waiting for Alex to respond, to let them know if Henry’s fine. Or if everything’s over. 

  
  


“Henry’s up,” he tells them quietly. 

  
  


And he should feel better, because there’s a visible exhale amongst them, released shoulders and hushed whispers of _Oh, thank God._ Catherine, looking smaller than Alex has ever seen her, lets out a relieved sob under the portrait of Thomas Jefferson. 

  
  


But he doesn’t. There’s still a pit in the bottom of his chest, this scooped-out sensation that’s raking at his insides. His dad, who’s always had a propensity for sniffing out bullshit, slowly turns Alex’s head back to face him. The question comes calmly and low so no one else can hear. 

  
  


“Alex. Is Henry okay?”

  
  


And Alex can sense his ribcage squeezing in now, making it near impossible to get the words out. He runs a shaky hand through his hair, huffing out a breath. “I don’t- I don’t know, Dad. He’s awake, but he’s just- he doesn’t feel right, and I’m trying everything I can, but he’s so anxious,” Alex manages, somehow talking through his constricted throat. 

  
  


His whole body is on fire now, vision wavering dimly from the stress of it all, but he trudges through the unease. “He- He didn’t want to be left alone to do the tests, but I had to, I couldn’t stay, and just- he’s on a ventilator now, so he can’t- he can’t _speak,_ Dad-”

  
  


And even though Alex is a wreck, a complete blubbering _mess_ with all his gasping and shuddering and disconnected thoughts, his dad is right there to catch him. To pick up every broken piece of his body and slot them soundlessly back into place. 

  
  


They’ve slid down to the floor now, with Alex grabbing desperately onto his dad’s neck, but he can’t sense anything beyond that point. His mind only races with thoughts of Henry, imagining him clutching Alex’s necklace in his fist, frightened and on edge and not the same anymore, never the same, and the list runs on forever through Alex’s head:

  
  


_Your fault. Your fault. Your fault._

  
  


* * *

  
  


“For Christ’s sake, Henry, you’re a fucking animal.”

  
  


The girls snicker by the window, watching Henry obliterate Pez on the chess board for the third time that evening. They’ve got all the pieces balanced precariously on the side of the bed, and Henry twirls the king between his fingers. He shoots Pez a drowsy wink. 

  
  


Alex smirks. Asshole.

  
  


“Mate, you know you’re allowed to concede, right?” Bea remarks with a shit-eating grin. She’s got her legs thrown across June and Nora’s laps, catching pretzels in her mouth from each of them to pass the time. Looking over her, with crumbs scattered across the length of her floral sundress, Alex wonders how she’s held onto a royal title for so long.

  
  


Pez flips her off, sloppily resetting the board. “Oh, bugger off, Beatrice. If you’re so good, you get over here and try it.” 

  
  


In typical Beatrice fashion, she untangles herself from Nora and June and strolls over to perch by Henry’s legs, roughly shoving Pez off the bed (“You are a _menace,_ woman”). Henry squints at her playfully, not at all hesitant to kick her ass in the next round. Or try to, at least.

  
  


“Alright, you tosser, let’s make it quick. I don’t care how sad and debilitated you are, I’m not holding back.” 

  
  


They start sticking pieces to the board in rapid succession, taking their turns with brisk little clunking noises. None of it makes any sense to Alex, but he’s still mesmerized, following Henry’s deft movements and nimble fingers and thinking that he should really get a handle on the whole competency kink. 

  
  


Because out of all things - _chess_ should not be a turn on.

  
  


It wasn’t really Alex’s doing. After the doctors finished checking up on Henry, the man refused to go to sleep. No matter how many times Alex threatened to pour NyQuil into Henry’s IV, he only stewed in silence, eyes kept defiantly open toward the ceiling. Until he developed the audacity to complain about how bored he was.

  
  


_I’m wasting away, Alex,_ he had scribbled on a piece of White House stationary. _Deteriorating as we speak. I need entertainment. Or solid food. An actual kiss on the lips. ANYTHING_

  
  


And Alex couldn’t provide the last two options (no matter how badly he wanted to), so he called the gang up to Henry’s room. At first, Nora and June wanted to find a crappy Netflix original movie, which had been a long-time tradition for the six of them at the brownstone. 

  
  


Alex actually wouldn’t mind playing a game of Monopoly from time to time - but this particular group of assholes preferred to spend their Friday nights laughing at shitty dialogue and middle-aged sex fantasies.

  
  


It was a good idea, really. But he took one look at Henry, who still had that goddamn tube down his throat, and Alex decided he would sooner run his dick through a pencil sharpener than make his boyfriend feel left out. So they’re playing chess.

  
  


Bea and Henry come to a sort of standstill on the board, and he scowls down at the game for a minute before briskly swapping out one of the black pieces for his own. Pez barks a laugh. 

  
  


“Fuck!” Bea swears, toppling her king over in a huff, and Alex swears this is the most attracted he’s ever been to Henry’s dumbass. 

  
  


“You see! What did I tell you, Your Highness?” Pez shouts triumphantly from across the room, and Nora has to physically restrain Bea from marching over there and asphyxiating him. Henry only shakes his head, worn out and fond, like a dad watching his kids bicker in the yard. 

  
  


The thought nearly gives Alex an arrhythmia. With a jolt, he feels his phone buzz in his back pocket and reluctantly pauses his ogling to slide it out. A text from June pops up on the screen:

  
  


_Bug: You are literally going to HELL stop giving Henry the fuck eyes_

  
  


Alex smirks impishly, knowing that he - in fact - will not.

  
  


_i’ll see you there motherfucker. you’re just jealous you don’t have a super hot chess playing prince for a significant other_

  
  


A shout from the corner of the room. “Hey Henry, Alex says you’re a super hot, chess-playing prince.”

  
  


_“June!”_

  
  


Henry arches a quizzical eyebrow his way, and Alex wonders if he could manage to slip a habanero pepper into his sister’s coffee tomorrow morning. “I said _no_ such thing, Henry, that information is _false-”_

  
  


And he sees Henry nod his head mockingly, in a way that says _Yes, sure, Alex, of course,_ and he can’t decide if he wants to confiscate Henry’s chess rights or kiss the ever-loving fuck out of him. It’s probably the second one. 

  
  


Well. It’s always the second one. 

  
  


“You’re an asshole,” Alex says affectionately, shifting to get on the bed. “Move over.”

  
  


And Henry does, with Alex helping to lift him gingerly by the back, and he easily settles into the crook of Alex’s arm. Giving a little sigh, he drops his head into Alex’s chest, all droopy eyelids and messy blond hair; Alex lets his lips rest there, breathing him in.

  
  


He peers up at Pez, Nora, and Bea, still distracted across the room, wrestling in a massive clump that June refuses to join in on. Grabbing the notepad and pen from beside Henry’s pillow, Alex plops it on his thigh and jots down a question: _How are you doing?_

  
  


Henry reads over it for a few seconds too long, hesitating, before taking the pen from Alex: _As well as a super hot, chess-playing prince can be._

  
  


“You little shit,” Alex accuses quietly, and he smiles at the feeling of Henry’s chest shaking a bit with laughter. _Very funny. How are you really doing?_

  
  


There’s a beat where the pen just hovers in Henry’s hand, like he really doesn’t want to say whatever it is he’s thinking. But then he scrawls: _I hate this. I miss talking to you. And breathing through my nose._

  
  


And Alex has to close his eyes for a second, let the heartache wash over him before he packs it down tightly, forcing it all the way down to the bottom. This isn’t about him. 

  
  


_I’m sorry sweetheart. Is there anything I can do?_

  
  


Henry stares at it. Considers. Then, taking the pen, he replies with a tiny scribble near the edge of the page:

  
  


_Just be here, please._

  
  


And Alex doesn’t need to read any more to hold Henry closer, intertwine their fingers. Vaguely, he hopes that he can pull Henry’s head up over the water. That “being here” might keep him from drowning under the mess of it all. 

  
  


“I love you, Henry,” Alex mumbles into the waves of his hair, and he senses Henry’s head settle impossibly closer into the embrace. They lay there for a minute, finding solace in the way they fit together, poking wires and unwashed clothes and all. 

  
  


It’s funny, sometimes. How everything else just falls away. 

  
  


Alex is almost starting to nod off when someone raps politely at the door. Pez perks up from where he’s sprawled out on the ground, clearly not having fared well under Bea’s wrath. Exasperated, he calls out, “Shaan, I told you, we are not in need of your services, sexual or otherwise-”

  
  


Dr. Rivera pokes his head in, sending an odd look Pez’s way. “Is this a bad time?” 

  
  


June and Nora both have to stifle their laughter as Pez blinks up at him, mouth hanging open, goldfish-like. “Er- No, not at all. Please, come in, doctor,” Pez tries, awkward and stiff in a pile of sparkly designer clothes. Henry finds it particularly amusing, eyes crinkling up at the corners, and Alex thinks something as pretty as that should be illegal.

  
  


The man takes a comically large pump of hand sanitizer as he steps through the entryway, which produces visible concern on Henry’s face. With the white swish of his coat, Dr. Rivera pivots to face him. “Alright, Henry,” he starts, breaking out into a grin. “You ready to get that tube out?”

  
  


There’s an audible gasp of delight in the room, and Henry’s eyebrows shoot up like Dr. Rivera just handed him a puppy on Christmas day. He twists up to meet Alex’s eyes, gaze wide open and happy, and he swears it makes the whole world light up - the whole, entire world. 

  
  


Instinctively, Alex kisses Henry’s face all over, thinking there’s nothing that can top it, the softness, the cut of his nose, those damn eyelashes. “Fuck yeah, baby,” he laughs out, and for a hospitalized man, Henry looks positively pleased with his situation.

  
  


“That sounds like a yes to me,” Dr. Rivera comments breezily, drifting over to some of the machines by the wall and fiddling with a few dials. “Just to let you know-” He glances at Henry through thick-rimmed glasses, “The procedure will be quick, but it’s not gonna be pretty.” 

  
  


Henry turns to regard him now, expression dropping into something wary. 

  
  


“We’re essentially just going to pull it out,” he continues, taking a seat by the bed rail. “There’ll be a lot of coughing, secretions, vomiting, most likely-”

  
  


And Alex can feel Henry tense at that, just barely - he might have missed it if they weren’t lying right against each other. A tiny hitch in his breathing, the stilling of his shoulders. But before he can lean in and ask what he needs, Pez pipes up from the other side of the room. 

  
  


“I think- Um. Well, I think we should step out and give Henry some privacy.” Pez seems strangely serious for once, uncomfortable. But there’s something firm behind his eyes - like it’s less of a suggestion and more of an instruction. He gets a rough agreement from Bea, and then June and Nora are both gathering up their laptops, the chessboard. 

  
  


Suddenly, Alex feels out of place. Like Pez got it right, and he should be shuffling out the door with the rest of them. Sneaking a glance at Henry, Alex sees he’s lost in thought, not quite looking up at him. “Okay,” he breathes, despite the funny strain in his chest, and shifts to climb out of the bed. “Alright, I’ll just-”

  
  


Then Henry is just _fumbling_ for the side of Alex’s shirt, almost reflexive, and he wavers. Alex turns back, curious, to a rustling in the bed sheets, the click of a pen; then, scribbled onto the middle of the notepad:

  
  


_Stay?_

  
  


...And that’s it, for Alex. That’s all he’ll ever need.

  
  


Henry doesn’t really let go of Alex’s shirt as he eases back down - just adjusts his grip a little, keeps holding on like he’s afraid someone’s going to come in and drag them apart. 

  
  


_(Well. They could fucking try.)_

  
  


“Okay,” Dr. Rivera starts softly, once all the others have filed out. “We’re gonna do this as fast as humanly possible, got it? Alex, you go ahead and help him sit up, I’ll get the oxygen tank running-” 

  
  


Henry lets out a groan as he eases up the mattress, Alex pulling him cautiously by the shoulders. He doesn’t quite make it to sitting position, and they have to pause halfway through to let him catch his breath, but he manages to get upright by the third try. 

  
  


Alex tries to ignore the way Henry tips his head back against the bed, already drained from the exertion. But the pit in his stomach is only getting bigger, more bottomless. He just keeps looking at Henry’s eyes screwed shut, the way his chest flutters with every inhale, the hand placed lightly over his bullet wound-

  
  


“Hold this for me, Alex,” Dr. Rivera interrupts, handing him a cannula that’s already spewing air. They’ve got Henry leaning forward now, with Alex steadying him from behind, and he has to concentrate, he has to _be there_ for him, because he wasn’t before. 

  
  


_(God, I can’t fucking believe you sometimes-)_

  
  


Henry kind of pitches toward the foot of the bed, hitting some sort of nauseous wave, and Alex has to grab him before he topples over. “Woah, easy there, sweetheart. I’ve got you. It’s okay.”

  
  


The extubation comes in a blur, with Henry puking up slimy shit and coughing violently enough to give Alex an ulcer. It’s gross, and hard to watch, and Alex _knows_ that Henry’s chest must be on fire, but he just keeps rubbing circles onto his back. Helps the doctor slip the cannula under Henry’s nose. 

  
  


“Cough it out, honey, it’s okay. You’re okay,” he soothes, but Henry’s just panting so _hard,_ it’s a wonder he hasn’t popped any stitches yet.

  
  


Alex shudders. Fucking nightmare fuel.

“Alright,” comes Dr. Rivera’s voice from the side. He examines one monitor closely, makes a couple of notes on the clipboard. “Oxygenation, vitals. Everything looks good.”

  
  


Alex peers at him skeptically, still trying to calm the _heaving_ that Henry’s doing when he’s not gasping for air. “Are you sure, doc?”

  
  


“Positive.” He gets to his feet now, takes out a stethoscope and slants in between them to listen to Henry’s lungs. Nods his head minutely after each movement. “Henry, you seem to be doing fine. It’ll take a little while until you can speak again, but we can get you started on some actual food in the meantime, yeah?”

  
  


Henry smiles tiredly, eyes bloodshot and hair a fucking mess, and holy _shit,_ Alex did not realize how much he missed the sight of Henry’s face until now.

  
  


Before Alex even registers it, he’s staring, tucking a strand of hair behind Henry’s ear. “Hi, sweetheart,” he whispers, with the hint of a smile on his lips. Then Henry’s looking right back at him, actually sitting up and looking at him with his entire, beautiful fucking face, and then they’re laughing. 

  
  


Well - Henry’s doing more of a breathy wheezing number than a laugh, but he’s still beaming at Alex, radiating relief and joy like he’s goddamn sunshine personified. It settles something within him, right in the middle of Alex’s chest, inches him closer to being whole again.

  
  


Then Henry starts to cry, and it’s the most natural thing in the world for Alex to pull him right into his arms, to lay back against the mattress and hug him into a steady oblivion. “I know, baby,” he murmurs, brushing Henry’s hair back while he lets it out, giving soft little sobs and faint whimpers into Alex’s neck. “Shh. I know.”

  
  


Dr. Rivera discreetly gathers up his things, heads toward the door. “He’ll be okay,” he says quietly to Alex, right before he exits. “Just try and get him to sleep. I’ll be back to check on him in a few hours.” 

  
  


Alex mouths a silent thank-you to Dr. Rivera, still cradling Henry’s head close, and watches him slide out the door. 

  
  


He immediately turns his attention back to Henry, content to run his thumb back and forth across his jaw and mutter sweet nothings by his ear. “I’m so proud of you, sweetheart,” Alex goes, hoping it might stop the tremors in Henry’s chest. He presses kisses along the hollow of his cheek, red and indented from the ventilator strap. “You did so well. I can’t wait to hear your voice again.”

  
  


And Henry finally lets his eyelids drop shut, lashes wet and tickling the side of Alex’s neck. He’s still wearing the necklace from that morning, latching onto it tight with the hand that’s not still adhered to Alex’s shirt hem. 

  
  


It confuses him, these days. How much Henry needs him. 

  
  


Even though Alex is loathe to admit it, he knows this, knows it all the way down to his bones. Understands it a little more as Henry nudges his nose closer to Alex’s jaw; as he tangles their feet together, all cozy and warm in his grippy hospital socks. He feels it in the way Henry’s been clinging to him the past few days, fingers always searching for the collar of his shirt, the sleeve of his hoodie.

  
  


Henry hardly ever lets himself be taken care of like this. Always trying to carry everything on his own, never letting people see how much he’s hurting, because he doesn’t know how else he’s supposed to survive. 

  
  


He usually manages to stay just below his limits - to hide every crack and fissure in his body until he’s nearly there, right at the brink of coming undone. But sometimes he miscalculates, and then everything comes tumbling apart.

  
  


So the one person he looks for, will always look for, is Alex. 

  
  


And it _kills_ him _._ It really, physically kills him, because he can’t forget the way Henry’s blood pooled around them both in the Entrance Hall, viscous and seeping easily through the dense carpet. How he was convulsing trying to grab a hold of Alex, fingers stained red and trembling wildly.

  
  


He can’t shake off the feeling that he did this. That he brought Henry here, into this hospital bed, and ripped his heart out. 

  
  


The one he’s so particular about giving away. Alex left it bleeding and raw on the table. 

  
  


The only thing that distracts him from slipping down that rabbit hole and never coming back up again is Henry. Henry, who would never let him fall. Henry, who’s tracing his finger along Alex’s leg in short, disorganized strokes. 

  
  


And as Alex listens to the sound of his breathing (because, God, that’s exactly what he’s been needing to hear the past few days), he feels Henry’s cries gradually subside, and eventually turn into the subdued, easy sighs of sleep. But just as he’s at the brink of passing out, right before, Alex notices it-

  
  


The notepad is lost, buried under the blankets somewhere. So in the spot above Alex’s knee, the skinned one, Henry is writing to him, making one last repetition:

  
  


_Love you_

  
  


And Alex tries not to sob too hard while his boyfriend dozes off.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Nora finds him the next night, in a pile of highlighters and research papers on the Med Unit floor. Strolling up right in front of him in a couple of brown loafers, she pointedly starts tapping her foot, but Alex doesn’t look up from his computer. Which, in all honesty, is a death wish on his part. 

  
  


“Alex.”

  
  


Maybe if he just keeps typing, she’ll go away. Like how you’re not supposed to make eye contact with a black bear, because if you do, it’s taken as an act of aggression, and that’s when they tear your throat out.

  
  


Not that Alex thinks Nora should be compared to an animal. No - she just scares the shit out of him sometimes. 

  
  


Before he can wrap up the end of his paragraph, the laptop is being wrenched from his hands and Nora is clamping it shut, crouching down to his level. She’s staring right at him, with eyes so intense it’s like she’s analyzing every inch of his soul and - oh, he’s a dead man now.

  
  


“What the fuck are you doing?” she hisses, and it takes Alex’s vision a moment to focus through his glasses. He didn’t realize it was already dark out. 

  
  


“I’m catching up on all the coursework I missed,” he replies with a shrug of his shoulders, and Nora’s eyes nearly roll into the back of her head with how much his answer appeases her. 

  
  


Maybe someday Alex will stop trying to bullshit his hyper-intelligent, MIT-attending best friend into believing he’s fine. That day is not today.

  
  


“Yeah, asshole, I can see that,” she bites back. “I mean - why are you out here on the ground when Henry’s in _there?”_ He opens his mouth to speak, but Nora cuts over him first. “And don’t even _try_ to tell me it’s comfortable or whatever, because I know how much you fucking hate this rug.” 

  
  


Alex’s eyes flit downward - and yeah, this rug is really fucking ugly, but looking at it beats trying to parse through his thoughts. 

  
  


They don’t give up, no matter how many recorded lectures he watches, not even when they’re at two times the speed. It’s like ramming a freight train through the chaos of his brain, hoping it’ll clear the space out, but knowing things will only be more fucked up in the aftermath. 

  
  


Drawing a pattern on the carpet, he mutters, “Henry’s with his family right now. I don’t want to bother him.”

  
  


“Bullshit. You are his family.”

  
  


And that makes Alex’s jaw clench. Triggers an unpleasant squeezing in his chest, because he wishes it could be true. He only shakes his head marginally, gives a faint little “No” under his breath. 

  
  


Nora launches up on her heels, fiery and thoroughly irritated. “Oh, that’s how you want to play it, Diaz? Really? Okay, fine - in that case, I’ll just march right in there and let Henry know what his beloved boyfriend just said about him-”

  
  


“Nora, _don't-”_

  
  


“Then you go in instead!” 

  
  


Alex has to shove his palms into his eyelids, his whole head about to crack in half. There’s that awful feeling now, the one he’s been trying to avoid all day - returning to spread through his sternum, making everything dark and stressful and difficult. 

  
  


He wants to see Henry, he really does. That’s the one thing Alex needs from the world right now, to just tuck himself under Henry’s arm and not have to worry about anything else. But he refuses. 

  
  


He can’t. He can’t be any more of a burden on him. 

  
  


“Nora, I just-” Alex slides his glasses off and sends a hand through his hair, pulling at the curls there in frustration. “I really don’t want to do this right now, I just need to study-”

  
  


“Your boyfriend just got shot, Alex. Studying can wait.” 

  
  


_“You think I don’t know that already?”_ He jumps to his feet, letting the shitstorm inside finally give way to anger. His words are rushing out now, red-hot and strained as he tries to keep it to a whisper. “I’ve spent the last four fucking days living with that, slept maybe one night out of all of them, watched Henry die and come back and nearly lose a fucking lung, so don’t _fucking_ try that shit on me.” 

  
  


Nora doesn’t even flinch, eyes remaining steely and unswayed by his outburst. “That’s exactly why you should be with Henry right now. Not avoiding him.”

  
  


“I’m not _avoiding_ him-”

  
  


“You _are,_ Alex.”

  
  


Alex pinches the bridge of his nose, a vain attempt to keep it together. He’s a time bomb ticking down by the second, one wrong wire away from splintering apart. “Nora, h-he’s fine. He’s got Bea, and Pez, and- and his mom, and everyone else he could possibly want-”

  
  


“He wants _you.”_

  
  


“No, he doesn’t.”

  
  


“Well, he’s been _asking_ for you,” she asserts, placing her hands on her hips. It makes the comeback die on his tongue. “All day long. It was 9 in the fucking AM when I went to go get him a smoothie for his throat- which _hurts,_ by the way, but it’s not like you care-”

  
  


“Fuck you, Nora,” he spits, but she only digs in further- 

  
  


“-and he was already asking me, _‘D’you know where Alex has run off to?’_ Because he woke up and you were gone. And you’ve been gone since.” 

  
  


Nora pauses, the silence rigid and damning as it descends upon the room. It makes Alex want to run out through the hall, maybe throw himself off one of the White House balconies - though he doesn’t know how feasible that is with all the heart palpitations he’s been getting recently.

  
  


He’s stilled now, gripping the edge of a table with the sloppiest lacquer job he’s ever seen. Good Lord. He’s gonna make it his personal mission to track down whoever the fuck allowed this garbage into the president’s medical suite. Look at that dent, right at the edge, like they didn’t even take Woodshop in middle school, shitty fucking- God, he’s gonna rip them a new one-

  
  


Nora cuts thinly into his manic thoughts, exasperated. “He _needs_ you, Alex. I can’t believe I have to explain that to you.”

  
  


And all at once, Alex forgets the anger, forgets the stupid table, because the thing is - she doesn’t. She doesn’t have to explain. 

  
  


He feels the weight of that, lets out a sigh. “I know.” And it’s all so miserable, so fucking overwhelming that he has to slump down on one of the sectionals. 

  
  


Peering through the window, Alex searches for the constellations. The sky only responds with murkiness, the moon just a shadowy sliver by the corner, and it all succeeds in making him feel even worse. 

  
  


Nora sees him struggling, looks right through him in the way she’s been able to do their entire lives, and her face softens a touch. Soundlessly, she makes her way over so she can tap the edge of his chin. “Then why are you acting like this?” she asks, hardly loud enough to hear, and Alex is ready to lose it all over again.

  
  


“Because I can’t _fucking stand myself, Nora-”_

  
  


And, of course, the door to Henry’s room hinges open at that exact second, so Alex shuts his mouth. Blinks back the frustrated tears about to fall, stops fucking _talking,_ because it’s all he ever does, and it messes everything up. 

  
  


A mild yellow light sheds over the waiting area, and Bea steps out from it, expression uneasy at the sight of them. 

“Is everything alright?” she asks, brows timid as she tries to get a gauge on Alex’s face, which he’s intentionally turned away. Nora’s gaze is blazing into the side of his skull, but she doesn’t comment on him. 

  
  


He’s gotta figure this out for himself.

  
  


“We’re fine, Bea, thanks,” Nora replies for the both of them, effectively shoving the argument they just had into a box. Filing it away for later.

  
  


And because Bea is whip-smart, and therefore can spot people’s inner turmoil like an x-ray machine, she looks unconvinced. But she passes over it, too, as if Alex has got some giant neon sign flashing over his head: _DON’T TOUCH ME, I’M EMOTIONALLY COMPROMISED._

  
  


“Well,” she offers quietly, shifting on her feet. “Henry was just wondering where you were, Alex.”

  
  


And Alex wishes she hadn’t said it, because it means Henry is looking for him now, _right now,_ and he doesn’t know how he can just ignore that. 

  
  


He hears sweet-sounding laughter bubbling up from the room behind her, and Alex feels a strange combination of relief and hurt at the same time. Listening to the chorus of familiar voices, all of the people Henry could ever possibly want to keep him company - it’s easier to convince himself that Henry won’t really mind if he visits or not.

  
  


“Just, um. Could you just- tell him that I can’t make it today?” He starts collecting his papers from the floor, trying not to make eye contact. It doesn’t make him feel any less like a piece of shit. “I’m really busy with all the makeup work from school, and I’ve gotta concentrate-”

  
  


“Can’t you just work in here?” Bea asks, frowning. “We’ve got plenty of chairs. Or you could just sit next to Henry on the bed.” 

  
  


He pauses, not quite knowing how to answer that without sounding like a total dipshit. Bea’s eyes stay trained on him, confused, as he racks his brain for the right words. 

  
  


“I don’t know, Bea, I’ve, um. I’ve really gotta buckle down on this.” 

  
  


_Pathetic_ is the right word. He sounds pathetic.

  
  


Bea keeps pushing, not having a single one of Alex’s excuses. “I could tell everyone to quiet down, if you’d like. But it’s quite late, anyways, so what’s the point in studying any more than you already have?” 

  
  


Judging by the way she’s begun to glower at him, Alex figures that she’d sooner drag him in by the ear than let him spend another second away from her brother - and that’s not a theory he’d like to test. 

  
  


“That’s, um. Yeah, that makes sense, Bea. I’ll be right in,” Alex sighs, picking up his laptop from its spot on the hideous table. This seems to be the only answer she’s satisfied with, and she leaves the door ajar for him before walking back inside. Alex heads over to follow her, hands shaking involuntarily. 

  
  


He doesn’t know how to do this. Any of this. 

  
  


“Hey.” Nora catches him softly by the arm before he can make it through the doorway. She’s looking right at him now, brown eyes intent and hard - but above all, concerned. “If… If you’re really not okay, you don’t have to see him.”

  
  


In a different universe, that might be advice that Alex could follow. He’d much rather turn tail and leave, so he wouldn’t have to remember the love of his life almost dying in his arms. To have to talk to him and pretend that everything is normal, like the whole world wasn’t ripped apart and stitched back together in a matter of days.

  
  


But he can’t run away now that it’s standing in front of him. It’s his brain on autopilot, knowing what he has to do, undoubtedly, because he could never, ever leave Henry to fend for himself. 

  
  


Not after everything he’s been through. Not when he turns to Alex and asks.

  
  


He places a hand over hers, gently nudging it off of his arm. “I’ll be fine, Nora. Thanks for calling me on my bullshit.”

  
  


She smiles weakly in return. Ruffles his hair. “Anytime, Alex.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


It’s still pitch black outside when Alex pushes through the doorway, but Henry’s little hospital room is glowing from the lamplights. What appears to be his entire immediate family is there, all settled in various chairs and makeshift cushions on the floor, and it would literally be the most British congregation of people Alex has ever seen in one place if he hadn’t already been to a polo match. 

  
  


Philip and Martha are entertaining their two-year-old with shadow puppets on the wall. Nearer to Henry’s bedside, there’s Catherine and Pez, debating over which American chocolate brand is the most tolerable (“Hershey’s tastes like _baby vomit,_ Pezza, and I will defend that to my last breath.”) 

  
  


And there, in the middle of it all - is Henry, the most bright and alive he’s been in days. Shaan is insistent on trying to spoon-feed him some kind of soup, and by the way Henry is laughing and shoving his hand away, Alex can tell he’s not having it.

  
  


Laughing. He’s laughing. Wow. 

  
  


When Alex catches his eye, Henry’s smile only gets wider. “Love,” he calls, voice hoarse but enduring, “Would you please tell this _heathen_ to back off of my personal space? I think I can feed myself, thank you very much.” 

  
  


And Alex has no idea what to say, still trying to process the fact that Henry’s _talking_ now, but Shaan is already firing back a “I’ve watched you spill this soup down your shirt _four times_ already. You’ve lost your eating privileges.” 

  
  


“It wasn’t _four times-”_

  
  


“You’re right, sir, it was five.”

  
  


While they continue on bickering, Alex finds a chair to pull up next to Henry’s bed - just nearby, but not too close. The sight of him is warm and light, and Alex can’t help but stare for a moment, absorbing Henry in his entirety. Breathing. Happy. 

  
  


_(Not dead.)_

  
  


But at the same time, there’s still something off. Henry’s under-eye bags are the darkest Alex has ever seen them, gaunt and shadowy against the cut of his cheekbones. His bottom lip has been chewed furiously red, and there’s a noticeable tremor to his hands, which he’s trying to keep clamped down in his lap.

  
  


All of his little anxiety tics, hidden expertly behind an open smile. Maybe that’s why he’s having trouble eating.

  
  


“Alex?” 

  
  


Shit.

  
  


“What?” Alex snaps his head up to meet Henry and Shaan’s quizzical faces, not having a clue what conversation he’s supposed to be in right now.

  
  


Henry tilts his head, looking at him a little funny. “Shaan was just asking if you’d rather be my personal soup handler tonight.”

  
  


Alex feels a painful twist in his heart, the beginnings of a lump in his throat, but he forces himself past that. Concentrates on the pale tint of Henry’s skin, the dull sheen of his hair, the way he’s looking at Alex cautiously - like he’s not quite sure of himself.

  
  


No, Alex will suck it up. Because if Henry needs help to hold a spoon upright, then somebody better fucking deliver.

  
  


“Yeah,” he goes, trying to blink his way back into reality. “Yeah, just scoot over a little, baby.”

  
  


Then he’s sitting with one leg dangling off the side of Henry’s bed, stirring a cup of clear broth with a plastic spoon. He can feel Henry staring at him, can imagine the small furrow of his brows so clearly, but neither of them say anything.

  
  


Shaan eyes Henry warily, idly buttoning up his suit jacket. “Alex, you don’t let him go _near_ that soup, do you understand? If any of that gets onto his bandages, I don’t know _what_ kind of infections he could get-”

  
  


“Infections from what, Shaan? Water? A hint of salt?” Henry asks sarcastically, clearly expecting Alex to back him up - but Alex is somewhere else now, because he forgot that Henry could get infections, that it could be over so fast if something went wrong-

  
  


Then Shaan is making a fuss as he scrambles out of his seat, hurrying toward Philip and Martha’s little girl with a shout of “Lizzie, darling, that telephone cord is _not_ meant for your consumption!” and that grounds Alex enough to stop thinking about it. 

  
  


Henry hasn’t taken his eyes off of him since he first spaced out, but he just tries to focus on getting the spoon to Henry’s mouth without sloshing the soup too much. 

  
  


It’s not anything new, feeding Henry. They’ve done it plenty in the past two years, taking care of each other every time one of them caught a cold or had a headache. 

  
  


In sickness and in health, Alex supposes.

  
  


He still remembers the time he had his first big mental breakdown in law school - when midterms were coming up and he had spent an ungodly number of hours pouring over dusty textbooks with microscopic fonts. 

  
  


5 am rolled around one day after Alex had spent the entire night studying, and the coffee machine broke. It just _broke,_ as if he didn’t have a final exam to take the next morning, and he started sobbing, right there in the middle of the kitchen.

  
  


It had taken Henry so long to fall asleep that night, but he told Alex he didn’t care, that he didn’t like being in bed without him anyway. He just scooped him up - actually carried him, like the real-life prince he is - and rocked him back and forth on the couch. Eventually coaxed food and water into him, because Alex hadn’t bothered with any of that in days; wiped his tears away and told him, over and over again-

  
  


_You are enough. You tried your hardest. That’s always enough._

  
  


And Alex is trying to channel that love into the way he’s feeding Henry now, but his hands have started shaking, too, and the soup has gone cold and Alex doesn’t know what he would do if Henry had died.

  
  


“Love,” he hears Henry say, low and roughed up. The edges of it tinged with worry. “What’s wrong?”

  
  


There’s almost something physical keeping Alex from telling him everything. Even though that’s what they do, that’s all that Alex _wants,_ he doesn’t want to mess any of this up. Doesn’t want to add on to Henry’s problems when he’s already so, so tired. 

  
  


“Nothing,” Alex mutters, bringing another spoonful to Henry’s lips. “M’fine.”

  
  


Then Henry’s scowling at him, eyes narrow in the way that they get when he’s frustrated or perplexed. Alex keeps his gaze locked firmly on the soup - which probably isn’t helping him, but it’s easier than trying to meet Henry’s glare. 

  
  


Henry’s head turns up stiffly in the corner of Alex’s eye, and all of a sudden he’s giving an exaggerated yawn, addressing the room. “Alright, everyone - I love you all, truly, but if I’m not _fully_ unconscious within the next five minutes, I think I might have another heart attack.”

  
  


There’s a few exclamations of “Oh, dear!” and an immediate scuffling of shoes, and then everyone’s coming up to say goodnight. It’s a little weird, considering that Alex is usually the one that has to force Henry to bed before he starts hallucinating, but he won’t argue. He knows this asshole has not had more than 12 collective hours of sleep in his entire life.

  
  


Bea and Catherine nearly drown him in kisses, and afterward Shaan stops by to fiddle with Henry’s IV, fluff his pillow - much to Henry’s discontent. 

  
  


Then Philip and Martha are lingering off by the side a bit, with the former leaning down to whisper softly by Lizzie’s ear: “Go on and say goodnight to your Uncle Henry, love.” And then she’s toddling over to him, yellow curls springing in excitement as she clambers up the bed. 

  
  


“Careful, darling,” Henry coos, reaching out to support her around the middle. She giggles sweetly as soon as she’s next to him, wrapping her tiny arms around his neck. Grinning, Henry places kisses all over her face, making her squeal joyfully. 

  
  


“G’night, Unc’l Henry,” she babbles, grabbing at the collar of his hospital gown. He squeezes her even tighter, sweeps a finger down the little slope of her nose. 

  
  


“Goodnight, Lizzie dear,” he murmurs, loving and smiley, and then Martha comes over to lift her away. 

  
  


“We’ll see you tomorrow, alright, Hen?” she says before pecking the top of his head in a kiss, and Philip flicks off the lights before they head toward the door. 

  
  


Alex is thinking that was the most adorable thing he’s ever fucking seen before he realizes-

  
  


_Fuck,_ he’s going to be left alone with him.

  
  


If he gets off the bed now, and just kind of sneaks by Philip and Martha, then there could be a chance that Henry would be too delirious to notice. Then Alex could proceed to run to his bedroom and hope they don’t have the fire on too hot when he arrives in Hell.

  
  


He wishes Nora were here to provide him with the exact statistics. 

  
  


Alex is halfway through slinking off by the wall, still carrying the bowl of soup but not knowing what he’s supposed to do with it now, when-

  
  


“Oh, don’t you _dare.”_

  
  


_(Jesus, fuck.)_

  
  


Spinning slowly on his heel, Alex turns to face Henry, who’s set jaw and steely eyes are definitely not happy. He’s not sure of what to say to that, just lets out a question of “What?” that sounds far too innocent to be coming out of his mouth.

  
  


“What d’you mean, _what?”_ Henry goes, a tinge of hysterics to his raspy voice, “You’ve been avoiding me all day!”

  
  


And Alex has to sit back down in his folding chair now, because he can feel the dread blooming up in his chest again. There’s no getting out of this one, no words he can use to work his way around it. 

  
  


Underneath him, the hard plastic seat is freezing, and he can’t stop himself from sinking his head into his hands. 

  
  


“Love.” Henry’s tone has softened by a mile, and the man would probably be hugging him right about now if he could move on his own. The question comes in a quiet sigh, genuine and troubled: “What’s going on?” 

  
  


Reflexively, Alex is whispering, “Nothing,” because it’s all he knows how to say. He can’t stomach anything else. “Nothing, H.” 

  
  


“You’re anxious.”

  
  


“No,” he responds, lying through his teeth.

  
  


“You’re shaking your leg.”

  
  


Alex stops. “Am not.”

  
  


“Well, you were. I can see it in my peripherals.” 

  
  


“Look, sweetheart, you’re hopped up on a lot of medications right now-”

  
  


“Are you seriously trying to gaslight a wounded man? In his own hospital bed?” Henry’s indignant now, looking right pissed off as Alex lifts his head up to meet him. 

  
  


And he just feels awful now, because he knows he’s putting that look on Henry’s face, and he couldn’t fix it if he tried. “I’m sorry,” Alex mutters, hating himself so much that he could shred himself apart. “I’m sorry. Can you just… Can you tell me about your day?”

  
  


“Alex, you can’t be serious-”

  
  


“Please.” He knows he must sound completely wrecked, but he just wants this one thing. 

  
  


It’s what he always asks for on the bad days. When his thoughts have been sprinting ahead of him, fanning out in thousands of different directions and making it impossible for Alex to keep up. 

  
  


He just needs something to concentrate on outside of his head, something tangible and solid, and Henry is there to give that to him - to press Alex’s back against his chest and weave stories about the errands he ran that afternoon, the kids he chatted to at work, the dogs he and David got to meet on their morning walk. 

  
  


And Henry gets this, understands it better than Alex himself does sometimes. So even though he’s just deflecting, badly, and definitely being an asshole in the process - Henry starts talking. 

  
  


“When I, er- When I woke up this morning, it felt like someone had run a cruise liner down my throat,” he goes, clearing said throat several times in the process. “And I- well, I turned to tell you that, but you had already left, I suppose.”

  
  


Alex peers down at Henry’s hands, because he’s doing a shit job at hiding the way they’re trembling, and he’s reaching out to steady them before he can even process it. 

  
  


Henry responds just as quickly, turning his palm up shakily so his fingers can thread through Alex’s. Desperately, stubbornly. He takes a deep breath. “Then Nora brought me a smoothie and started cursing your name to the wind.” 

  
  


“I know,” Alex adds, smiling sadly. “Was the smoothie any good at least?”

  
  


“It was, for the first two sips. Then I got sick again.”

  
  


Something inside Alex crumples up even further at the thought of Henry throwing up all alone, because he _hates_ doing it, and it must have been in front of all of those nurses, and Alex was probably on one of his stupid fucking runs when it happened. 

  
  


They only clamp down on each other’s hands tighter, neither of them knowing exactly what it’s like in the other’s head - but both still willing to sift through it all, to clear a little spot and call it theirs. 

  
  


Henry plows on, gnawing on his lip between every breath. “They changed my bandages in the afternoon, which was one of the most disgusting things I’ve ever had the displeasure to experience. And Mum was there, which helped a bit, but you still weren’t, so.” 

  
  


The words start to bite into Alex’s skin, but he doesn’t say anything, just lets Henry recount all of the ways Alex failed to show up for him today. Henry’s voice is growing cold now, tumbling over his sentences as he tries to make sense of it all.

  
  


“Then one of the nurses accidentally gave me too high a dose of the usual painkillers, so I got quite woozy and wasn’t really feeling myself, but you still weren’t there. And later, when it was finally wearing off and your mother and sister both came in to say hello, you weren’t there, and when my entire family was visiting and I thought that something was missing, that something wasn’t right, I realized that it was because _you still weren’t there,_ so could you please _kindly_ explain to me what the _fuck_ you’ve been doing all this time?” 

  
  


Henry’s practically seething at this point, staring down at Alex like he wants to wrench the answer out with a screwdriver. Alex feels the beginnings of a crying fit spring up in his eyes, so he just keeps his attention on their joined hands. The way they’re gripped together so intensely that their knuckles are going white. 

  
  


“I don’t- I don’t like _asking_ for these things, and I believe you know that already, but you keep forcing me to,” Henry continues, his voice starting to choke up now. “Just- you can talk to me, Alex, alright? About anything. I don’t care if you think it’s bad, I don’t care if you’ve fucking _killed_ a man, I just need you to let me know. Because I can’t function like this.”

  
  


Raising his head to meet Henry’s gaze, Alex can see just how tired he is. Now that everyone has left, Henry lets his guard down, and his exhaustion is plain in the purplish bruises underneath his eyes. How he keeps sinking back against the pillows, like it’s too tiresome to even sit up properly. 

  
  


His wonderful, worn-out boyfriend. It makes Alex’s tears spill over, one after the other, as if he had any control over it in the first place. 

  
  


“Love-”

  
  


“I can’t do this right now, Henry. Um,” he blurts out, standing abruptly and moving toward the door, “I’m- I’m sorry. I’ll be back some other time, okay?”

  
  


And he can’t take the fucking look on Henry’s face, like he’s gone and punched a hole in his heart, like the space between their hands now is the worst thing that could have ever happened to him.

  
  


So Alex hurries out the door, and tries to stop hyperventilating under the stiff covers in his old bedroom, but it’s useless, absolutely useless, because it feels like Henry’s dying all over again. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


The D.C. air is icy and razor-sharp during this time of year, but that doesn’t deter Alex from running seven miles through it. 

  
  


He woke up at five just so he wouldn’t have to lay in bed thinking about it, about anything, and was out the door as soon as he got his clothes on. Now the sun has come up far over the horizon, warming up jack shit in this weather, and Alex is panting so hard he thinks he tastes blood.

  
  


Making his umpteenth round past the White House, he considers stopping, but that would mean he’d have to step back into reality, and reality means he’d have to remember Henry, and Henry-

  
  


Alex continues running. 

  
  


It’s not long after that he hears rapid footfalls coming up behind him, and a distinct shout of “Slow down, you fucker!”

  
  


Zahra.

  
  


He can’t afford to stop for her, because he seriously might puke if he does. So he just jogs backwards until he reaches her pace, probably looking like an idiot, but it seems to appease her. Marginally.

  
  


“Care to tell me what the fuck you’ve been doing out here for the past two hours?” Zahra yells. Ready to tear him to pieces, as per usual. 

  
  


Alex glances her way, noticing she’s committed to hunting his ass down in full workout gear and a baseball cap, and throws back a simple “No!”

  
  


And they run on like that for a while, with Alex feeling more like a glob of sweat than a person, and Zahra tactfully keeping her mouth shut. He wouldn’t say it’s nice, exactly, but it’s better than being alone. 

  
  


Because Alex knows who he left alone. 

  
  


Back there, in the place that he’s trying to escape from. And every time he thinks about him, something just splits open inside. Something so terrifying and gigantic that it consumes everything that tries to come near it, and it makes Alex do stupid shit like leave his boyfriend in the middle of the night to go sprint circles around the city.

  
  


He picks up the speed at that, even though he knows every muscle in his body is going to pay for it the next day, but Zahra only quickens her step with him. And he doesn’t even notice how much he’s crying until the skyline starts to blur into itself, with all those bright oranges and blues-

  
  


Then Alex’s ankle is catching onto Zahra’s, and they both take a nosedive into the pavement.

  
  


Of course. Of fucking course it would happen this way.

  
  


“You _motherfucker,”_ she’s spitting, rubbing the gravel out of her palms and towering over him. “I’ve _had it!_ I’ve fucking had it!”

  
  


Alex can hear her loud and clear, even though he banged his head pretty hard on the concrete, and it very much feels like this whole thing is coming to an end. If only because Zahra wills it so.

  
  


She doesn’t give him any time to recover, just starts yanking him up by the arm. “You are going to get your ass back into that _goddamn_ hospital room, or I will turn your intestines into my _fucking winter coat!_ Throw one more excuse at me, Diaz, I fucking dare you!”

  
  


The ground is swaying underneath him, and he’s got his hands on his knees now, heaving out a “Zahra-”

  
  


“No, Alex!” she screams, chucking her hat in frustration. Some of the passersby are staring now, but that seems to be the furthest thing from her mind. “You don’t get to drag everyone else through the mud while you go through your monthly cycle of self-destruction and fuck-ups! Henry’s been a mess all morning long, and he looks like _shit,_ so you need to suck up whatever anxiety-induced horse crap you’ve got going on in your head and _fucking be there for him!”_

  
  


Alex swallows back bile, but then he’s nodding, agonizingly, eyes screwed shut. 

  
  


He’s done running. 

  
  


They somehow manage to trudge back to the White House, despite the shooting pains going through Alex’s temple and the blood dripping from Zahra’s elbow. It’s probably quite the spectacle, the two of them drenched with sweat and dirt from the fall, arms hooked around each other to stay upright, but neither of them give a shit. They’ve both got jobs to do. 

  
  


When they’re down the hall from Henry’s room, Alex falters. Zahra stops in her tracks, too, turning to survey the scared look on his face. 

  
  


For a beat, it’s just them, breathing quietly in the open corridor. And then, “You can do this, Alex. It’s alright.” 

  
  


He takes a gulp of air. Wills his racing heart to calm down.

  
  


“It’s just Henry, okay? It’s just him.”

  
  


And Alex suddenly needs to see those blue eyes right in front of him again, needs to feel Henry’s skin under his touch, needs to give so many apologies that the world caves in. He’s just starting forward when a commotion stirs down the hall. 

  
  


Footsteps and shouts and a holler of pain that is so undoubtedly _Henry,_ it makes Alex’s pulse stop dead in his veins.

  
  


It’s not important that he remembers how he got there, because he doesn’t - he just knows that he’s found his way to Henry, who’s writhing and sobbing in his hospital bed amongst a swarm of nurses. June’s the one holding his hand, brushing damp hair out of his face and telling him that it’s all going to be okay, when her gaze lands on Alex. 

  
  


_“Where the fuck have you been?”_ she shrieks, long past the point of composure. 

  
  


“Doesn’t matter,” Alex breathes, because it doesn’t. Henry’s completely undone, breathing so short and quick that he can tell it’s not just a panic attack, that something’s really wrong with his body. 

  
  


He takes over where June’s getting the life squeezed out of her palm, cups the side of Henry’s face with his other hand. “Henry, baby, look at me,” he goes, but Henry just keeps bawling uncontrollably, choking on whimpers and uneasy gasps for air. 

  
  


Alex searches around for June, not quite knowing what to do. “What’s wrong with him?” he asks, strained over the sound of clamoring nurses and Henry’s excruciating cries.

  
  


“They- They said his lung is inflamed.” Her voice comes out breathless and panicked through her tears. “They’re trying to find the right pain meds for him.”

  
  


_Fuck,_ is the only thought that crosses Alex’s mind, because that means it’s a waiting game. There’s nothing else he can do to make it better, at least not right now, and Henry’s just _weeping_ into his palm- 

_  
  
  
_

And it makes Alex think back to the other day, when he and Henry were passing notes to each other like schoolchildren. The one thing that Henry asked him for, written in ink on a flimsy piece of notebook paper - and it’s suddenly so obvious to him, so plain as to what he has to do, that Alex fully understands why the women in his life are always calling him a dumbass.

He draws himself up close to Henry’s face, just like he had the morning they left for D.C., until he can feel Henry’s breaths hitting his face. Kissing the spot just above Henry’s cheekbone, Alex does his best. “I’m right here, sweetheart. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. You’ll feel better soon, I promise, just hold onto me.”

  
  


_“Alex,”_ he weeps, and it sounds exactly the same as when he first got shot, but Alex doesn’t give a fuck anymore, because it’s Henry. It’s always gonna be Henry.

  
  


“Shh, I know, baby. I know. Just try and breathe with me, okay?” 

  
  


And Alex is kneeling right there on the hard tile, taking exaggerated breaths so that Henry has something to mimic, to concentrate on through all the pain, and there’s nowhere else he’d rather be. 

  
  


June eventually leaves to go freak out in the hallway, saying something about the fucking blood pressure spikes these two boys give her. A half-hour, maybe more goes by before the drugs kick in, and Henry finally catches a break from all the gasping inhales, the wheezing - but he keeps on crying into Alex’s palm. 

  
  


“The steroids should be working by now,” one of the nurses comments, a young wiry man who’s adjusting Henry’s bandages. “We’ll keep monitoring him throughout the day, but he’s gonna be high as a kite for a while.”

  
  


Alex nods, feeling some of the stress catching back up to him, but he just keeps stroking his thumb over Henry’s forehead. It’s almost feverish to the touch, and Alex presses his lips there once out of instinct. 

  
  


To his surprise, Henry starts speaking, letting out a small “Dn’t do that.”

  
  


Alex pauses his motions. “Don’t do what, baby?” he whispers gently. 

  
  


Instantly, Henry’s eyes start to well up again, like everything is so overwhelmingly _awful,_ and he limply tries to push Alex’s hand away. “Dn’t kis’ me.”

  
  


Alex outright sputters before the nurse glances at them offhandedly, marking something down on his notepad. “Like I said,” he offers dryly. “High as a kite.”

  
  


It doesn’t really make the situation any better, but Alex’s nerves calm a bit. He weaves his fingers through Henry’s hair tentatively. “Why don’t you want me to kiss you, baby?”

  
  


“B’cuz y’don’t _like_ me ‘nymore,” Henry sobs quietly, glistening blue eyes boring right into Alex’s. 

  
  


His words coil securely around Alex’s heart, aching and sorrowful as they dig in. Alex fumbles for something to rectify it. “No, no, no, sweetheart, of course I like you,” he soothes, voice suddenly thick. “I _love_ you. I love you so, so much, honey, why would you say that?”

  
  


“‘Cuz y’left me all- all alone,” he gasps out, curling up into himself. “Y’dn’t... w’nna _see_ me ‘nymore.”

  
  


His explanation cuts deep through Alex’s ribcage, makes his chest throb. Henry’s gaze is just _mournful_ on his, and if Alex doesn’t fix it right fucking now he might burst into a million pieces.

  
  


“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he tries. They’re both crying openly now, the past week rushing out in a mess of pitiful sniffles and misty eyes. “I’m so, so sorry, I never should have left. I was just scared, I was so scared that you were gonna die, and it would have been my fault-”

  
  


“Y’din shoot me?” Henry goes, utterly baffled at the idea. Alex chuckles wetly, brushing some of his own tears away.

  
  


“No, baby, I didn’t shoot you. It just kind of felt like I did.”

  
  


Even in his state of slurring and tripping over his own sentences, Henry’s still got that lilt to the edge of every lament. The one that makes him sound so properly royal and British that Alex can’t decide whether he wants to laugh or cry out of endearment. 

  
  


He hears it now, as Henry reaches to grab onto his wrist. Peers up at him with the biggest blue eyes Alex has ever seen in his life. “Y’would _never_ d’that t’me. _Never.”_

  
  


And the trust is so evident there, so clear-cut and undeniable that Alex feels another wave of sobbing come over him - which only makes Henry start blubbering again, too. 

  
  


_(God, we’re quite the pair, aren’t we?)_

  
  


Alex skims his fingers over Henry’s face, trying to memorize every miraculous inch. “Henry, baby, can I- can I kiss you again? Is that okay?” He immediately nods in response, fervently, like it’s the one thing he’s been wanting this entire time. 

  
  


And Alex goes to catch him on the cheek, right along the crease where he smiles the most - but at the last second, Henry turns his head so their mouths can meet.

  
  


It’s a bit salty from all the tears, and Henry’s lips are slick, a little dazed against his own - but _oh,_ this is the first time they’ve kissed since it happened, and Alex feels everything just settle back into his body. 

  
  


“Stay w’th me,” Henry chokes out, hoarsely. “Please.”

  
  


And Alex knows there is not a single version of reality - not _one_ \- where he says no to this. 

  
  


They always end up like this nowadays. With Henry’s head tucked snugly into Alex’s chest, arms enveloping one another, and the rest of the world going quiet and still. 

  
  


Alex is dancing his fingers across Henry’s collarbone when a wet splash lands on his hand, and he cranes his head down to see that his love has started to cry again. “What is it now, baby?” he whispers, trying to keep it low so that Henry might be able to doze off soon. 

  
  


“Can’t sleep,” he mumbles, sniffling. “Scared.”

  
  


With a pang in his sternum, Alex thinks back on the cloud of fatigue hanging over Henry, constant and unyielding, his dark circles; his refusal to fall asleep unless Alex was right there with him. It was hard enough already, dealing with the regular insomnia, but now there was something physical keeping him awake. The echo of a bullet, forever and ever tearing through his body.

  
  


It’s not something that Alex ever wants Henry to feel, and it makes him sick to his stomach, but he doesn’t leave. Just lets the emotions flood in, crash over them both in a tidal wave. 

  
  


They’ve got each other. They’ll hang on.

  
  


“Oh, sweetheart,” Alex breathes, resting his cheek in Henry’s hair. “You’re safe now. I promise. I promise, I’m not gonna let a single thing happen to you.” 

  
  


Henry lets out a sigh, burrowing his head further into Alex’s embrace. It’s comfortable and complete, the feeling of Henry’s weight in his arms, and Alex sings to him softly in their little spot of sunshine.

  
  


Something he could hear over the mini speakers at the brownstone, or the record player he’s got stashed back at the lake house. Something that feels like home.

  
  


_Quiero contemplarte sin contar el tiempo…_

_Dibujarte con mis puros recuerdos…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi thank you for reading!! pls let me know what you thought :)))


	3. homecoming

“Ow, _fuck,”_ Alex hisses, his head being yanked sideways by Henry’s awkward grip. “Henry, baby, d’you have to grab me there?”

  
  


“I thought you liked getting your hair pulled.” Henry grins back, though he releases Alex’s curls in favor of looping an arm around his neck.

  
  


He then proceeds to try and eat shit on the floor. 

  
  


“Motherf- _sh_ _itshitshit!”_ And Alex is spewing curses that would make a sailor blush while he scrambles to keep Henry upright, the both of them grasping wildly at each other in the hallway. Henry just barely manages to keep hold of Alex’s collar, his face scrunching up in pain. 

  
  


“Okay, babe. Um.” Alex huffs out a nervous breath. “On second thought- you can pull on my hair all you want. Use it like a fucking bicycle handle, I don’t care. Just- _don’t_ fall, okay?”

  
  


“Right,” Henry breathes, not letting go of Alex’s shirt. They have to stay there for a bit, just letting Henry recollect himself - but then he’s straightening up again and taking another step forward. 

  
  


The brave son of a bitch. 

  
  


It’s not the most comfortable position, since Henry’s got about half a head on him in height, but they manage. Alex has had his fair share of dragging his drunk friends out of shitty nightclubs, and this isn’t much different. 

  
  


(Except Henry, thankfully, doesn’t reek of puke and tequila.)

  
  


“You know, I feel like I’m getting some really great practice in for when we’re, like, eighty and your stupid polo knees finally give out,” Alex comments offhandedly, hoping that he can be a distraction from the pain.

  
  


Henry’s motions don’t become any less tense, but he still rolls his eyes. “Oh, you must be joking. You’ll be a lucky bastard if you don’t need joint replacement surgery by forty.” 

  
  


“And just _why_ do you think that is, Your Royal Limping Down the Hallway?”

  
  


“Because your favorite coping mechanism is running until you faceplant.” 

  
  


“For your information,” Alex retorts, adjusting his hold when Henry winces, “I’ve only done that like, twice. Three times, maybe, if you count Nora’s bat mitzvah.”

  
  


Henry turns to him, baffled. “What the hell happened at Nora’s bat mitzvah?”

  
  


There’s a beat where Alex contemplates lying, but the ass-kicking Nora would give him for it isn’t worth the trouble. He sighs. 

  
  


“We heard there was extra challah in the back of the church. Nora said she had first dibs because it was _her day_ or whatever, but you can’t understand how soft and chewy that bread is, Hen, you fucking can’t. It’s not some shit you can just make up. It’s _art.”_

  
  


“Quite.”

  
  


“So I raced her there and- well, long story short, she like, half-tripped me, half-shoved my head into a garbage can.”

  
  


“Oh, God.”

  
  


Alex hangs his head. “I know. I didn’t get any bread.” 

  
  


“No, I know that, I’m just- _so_ disappointed I couldn’t have been there to see it.”

  
  


“Oh, fuck right off, Wales. You know my ass looked good hanging out of that trash can.”

  
  


“Alexander, I am _not_ sexualizing any part of your twelve-year-old body.” 

  
  


“Hey, I was _eleven,_ and- yeah, you’re right. That’s fucked up. What about me now, though?”   
  


He doesn’t get an answer, because Henry has paused right in his tracks, eyes squeezed shut. 

  
  


A second passes before his breaths begin to shudder, clearly not cooperating with the way he’s trying to control them. “H?” Alex goes, a knot of anxiety immediately forming in his stomach. “You okay? Do you need me to get a nurse?”

  
  


Henry barely manages to choke out the word no, then says nothing for a while, breaths coming slow and deep. Alex’s pulse almost jumps out of his skin when Henry’s chest seizes a little, like it’s a fight to get even half a lungful of air in. 

  
  


“Henry, don’t think for one second that I won’t call 911 from _inside_ the fucking White House-”

  
  


“It’s fine, Alex,” he breathes out. “I just need a minute. It’s- er. It’s a lot.”

  
  


It’s happening again, where Alex sees that look on Henry’s face. Right in the crease of his brow. Exhausted and hurting and trying not to let either of those things show through. 

  
  


It makes his chest ache. 

  
  


He drops his voice a few notches, finding a spot to whisper in Henry’s hair. It’s still so fucking soft, even after being wrung through two weeks of sponge baths and stiff pillowcases. “We don’t have to do this today, baby. Not if it hurts that bad.”

  
  


And Henry’s shaking his head against Alex’s, muttering, “No. I’ve got to do this.”

  
  


“H, I’m serious, you shouldn’t push yourself too hard-”

  
  


“I want to go _home,_ Alex.” 

  
  


Henry’s gaze is set on his own, firm and imploring. And Alex doesn’t like it, he doesn’t like it one bit, but-

  
  


_God,_ he wants to go home, too.

  
  


So he gives a reluctant nod. Holds Henry even tighter, if possible, just around the waist, and helps keep him upright as he practices walking on unsteady legs. 

  
  


Henry’s nearly biting through his lip at the exertion, oxygen tank trailing close behind, and even though he’s never looked physically weaker - he’s still the strongest person Alex knows.

  
  


“Baby?”

  
  


“Yes, darling?” Henry grits out, pulling down hard on Alex’s shoulders.

  
  


“I wouldn’t mind taking care of you when we’re eighty.”

  
  


Henry shakes his head again, fondly this time, and plants a kiss on Alex’s temple. 

  
  


When they manage to trudge their way up the hall and back from Henry’s room, the man is about ready to faint. Alex has to suppress the urge to just pick him up and carry him the hell to bed, because Henry would be pissed, and he might actually drop him anyway. 

  
  


Which would be - humiliating, to say the least.

  
  


He helps ease Henry back down against the thin pillows. A little frantic, he makes sure his neck is supported and his cannula isn’t tangled and he’s got enough blankets-

  
  


“Alex, it’s fine,” Henry laughs, out of breath and grabbing at Alex’s hands to still them. “I survived a bullet wound. I don’t think I’ll die if the pillows go a bit flat.”

  
  


And Alex glares at him, because that is the absolute _worst_ joke he could possibly have made, but he stops fussing. Just takes a minute to look at him, all sweaty and beaten down, but still grinning mischievously, like all the other days they’ve been together. Blue eyes playful and bright. 

  
  


Henry’s smile goes soft at the edges, and he tugs at Alex’s hands, pulling him in. 

  
  


“Come here,” he says gently, and Alex is more than happy to kiss those lips he’s been staring at all day. 

  
  


It’s a different kind of feeling, now that Alex knows what it’s like to be deprived of it. Not like how it was when they were still hiding, which feels like it happened another lifetime ago. When he spent his hours lying awake at night, mind wrapped up in memories of Henry’s skin all the way across the Atlantic, counting down the days until he could drag his fingers all over it again.

  
  


No. Now he knows what it’s like to lose this for good.

  
  


He takes his time now, committing every detail to memory, a million times over. Henry’s palm against his jaw, rubbing his thumb slowly under his cheekbone. How sweet it feels, right against the smooth expanse of Henry’s mouth. The slight noises he coaxes from the back of his throat.

  
  


“I think,” Henry breathes out quickly, during the brief times that their lips aren’t together. “I think- this was- the _worst_ part- about being on the vent-”

  
  


“Yeah, it was, so could you shut up for a second, honey?”

  
  


“Gladly,” he goes, and then they’re falling right back into each other. 

  
  


They makeout until Alex loses track of the time, of himself completely, taking breaks whenever he feels Henry’s breaths get too harsh under his hands. And he doesn’t mind the moments in between, because he gets to scatter himself elsewhere. Ghosting right along Henry’s collarbone, brushing over every faded freckle on his nose.

  
  


Alex counts his blessings in each pass of Henry’s lips, and he knows this is it for him. This, right here in his arms. 

  
  


Henry smiles against his mouth, as if he knows it too, without Alex having to say anything, and it’s a flood of sunshine over his body. He wonders what heaven could possibly have to offer him when he’s already got Henry’s bottom lip caught between his teeth-

  
  


_“Surprise,_ shawty!” 

  
  


Alex drops his head onto Henry’s shoulder, letting out a groan. 

  
  


“Hi, June,” Henry greets goodnaturedly. 

  
  


Alex doesn’t have to look up to know his entire family is bursting through the doorway, all booming voices and beaming smiles. Any other time, he’d be glad to see them, seriously, but-

  
  


Did it have to be right now? 

  
  


Henry starts chattering with them all instantly, finding a natural rhythm in all their erratic babbling that’s been two years in the making. 

  
  


Still though, Alex hasn’t been forgotten, and Henry runs placating hands up and down his back. He refuses to stop mumbling and pouting into the crook of Henry’s neck. 

  
  


Henry’s absurdly soft neck, which smells like fresh towels. 

  
  


Fuck, these people have the worst timing.

  
  


“How are my boys doing?” Alex’s dad makes his way over to promptly rip him out of his hiding spot next to Henry’s head, bear-hugging the absolute shit out of them. 

  
  


He makes his reply real loud and asshat-like. “Oh, we were just fine until y’all got here. Really. Thanks for knocking and everything.”

  
  


It earns him an amused smile from Henry, and a massive flick to the ear from his father. 

  
  


“Attitude, mijo.”

  
  


Alex grins into his dad’s shirt. “Lo siento, papá. Te quiero mucho.”

  
  


“Really, how are y’all holding up?” his mom chimes in. Being mindful of Henry’s bandages, she scoops both of them up in an armful of messy bed sheets and goofy grins. 

  
  


“We’re fine, Mom,” Alex replies gently, and Henry nods his head in agreement. 

  
  


Apparently Alex’s assessment means jack-shit, because she turns to Henry, restlessly checking his forehead for a nonexistent fever. “Have you been feeling any better? Are the doctors treating you right? If you need me to fire anyone, sugar, I’ll be happy to-”

  
  


“I’m doing perfectly well, thank you, Ellen,” he goes, because Henry is just about the only person on this planet that can interrupt the President of the United States and make her smile about it in the process. “I want to know how you’re doing. The past few weeks must have been hellish.”

  
  


She pinches his cheek, which makes him light up so fondly that it almost hurts to look. “Oh, you sweet boy. It’s been more paperwork and security checks than usual, but nothing I can’t handle. I’m just glad everyone’s safe.”

  
  


His smile in return is soft, a kind of empathy there that Alex knows he’ll never fully understand. 

  
  


Not anymore. And that’s okay.

  
  


Everyone eventually falls back into a steady banter. It’s a rare sight, seeing his whole family gathered in one room and not ripping each other’s heads off. 

  
  


Alex is feeling absurdly content when he gets the urge to slump his head onto Henry’s shoulder and never get up - so he does, scooting down to settle himself there, arms winding around Henry’s own. Henry adjusts automatically, kissing the top of his head for good measure.

  
  


Leo slides around the side of the bed, grinning in that quiet way of his. “We actually got you a little something, Henry,” he starts, holding out a dull white box for him to take. Henry reaches out, tentatively, a curious look on his face. “Just a cake. So we can celebrate your recovery and everything.”

  
  


And Henry is nothing short of floored, because the man is physically incapable of expecting anything from anyone, but Alex knows better. He shoots a fleeting glance to June, who bites down on a smirk.

  
  


“Thank you,” Henry says with reverence, eyes flitting back and forth between Leo and Alex’s mom. “Really, you’re all too kind, I- Oh.”

  
  


Two seconds of silence. Then:

  
  


_“...I’m sorry you got shot instead of me?_ What the _fuck,_ Ellen?” 

  
  


There it goes.

  
  


“Well, what would you have done, Oscar? _Get well soon?_ Like his internal organs could just _magically_ un-shoot themselves?” His mom is already back on her feet, fists placed defiantly on her hips as she and his dad start ripping into each other.

  
  


They all really should have seen this coming.

  
  


Henry has already burst out laughing, a sound of pure joy (though he’s wincing at every inhale), and Alex seems to be the only one who notices it over the millionth Claremont-Diaz screaming match. 

  
  


It’s like breathing, the way he just can’t help himself. He has to kiss every inch of Henry’s face a thousand times over, he just _has_ to, even if it only makes him cackle harder.

  
  


Okay, _because_ it makes him cackle harder.

  
  


“You bust your stitches, and I’m putting you in solitary fucking confinement,” he mutters into Henry’s ear, only half-serious and ridiculously in love. 

  
  


Henry just shakes his head, a mop of sweaty curls over poorly-concealed mirth, then steals a swirl of icing off the cake. “You wouldn’t last a day,” he combats mischievously, swiping it on the tip of Alex’s nose.

  
  


Alex doesn’t jolt back quickly enough - and now there’s buttercream up one of his nostrils. 

  
  


“Oh, you are getting _fucked,_ Wales,” he threatens, aggressively rubbing the frosting off onto Henry’s cheek.

  
  


Another chuckle, and then comes Henry’s whispered response, low and secret behind Alex’s ear: “I’m counting on it.”

  
  


So now Alex is annoyed _and_ hard.

  
  


They pick lazily at the cake as Alex’s parents exhaust themselves. Henry grows drowsy into a conversation with June, something about trained therapy cats and how David would freak the hell out if they ever brought one home. 

  
  


Alex is zoning out, thinking about their apartment and grabbing a forkful of the word _shot_ when his mood starts to sink. 

  
  


It irritates him more than it probably should. Because nothing’s wrong. 

  
  


All of his favorite people are here, and Henry’s falling asleep on top of his head, and nothing’s _wrong,_ but something gloomy is curling its way into Alex’s gut.

  
  


After a few minutes of chewing his nails to a pulp, he notices June glaring at him, elbows resting at the foot of the bed. 

  
  


“What?”

  
  


“Prince Charming’s knocked out,” she whispers pointedly. “Now tell us what’s up with you.” 

  
  


Just like that, everyone’s turning their eyes to him, as if they’ve been waiting for this the entire time. Even Leo’s paused expectantly, a bite of cake hovering halfway to his mouth.

  
  


One would think that Alex could play dumb, considering how he operates on a daily basis. But the best he can do is, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  
  


“Bullshit,” comes the chorus of responses, noisy enough to make Henry stir. His hand twitches around Alex’s in his sleep - nervous, like he’s checking to see if he’s still there. 

  
  


Fuck familial love. “Wake him up and I will murder each and every one of you in your sleep,” Alex hisses.

  
  


“Just answer the question, honey.” His mom rests her hand on his leg, a steady weight to stop the fidgeting.

  
  


Alex weighs his options as he looks at them all, no doubt through heavy eyes and hollowed-out cheeks. The ones that come with weeks of focusing every ounce of energy onto a single person, one that’s not himself. 

  
  


He gets it, now.

  
  


“I just… I don’t know how I’m gonna take care of him when we get back home.” 

  
  


His voice is hardly loud enough to hear, but he knows his family is listening, picking up on every word. He drops his gaze to his jeans, studying the scuffed-up threads above the knee. 

  
  


“I want to be there for him, I do, it’s just, he’s- God, he’s so fucked up right now, which is totally understandable, but I… I don’t know if I’m gonna be what he needs.”

  
  


There’s a heavy break where he thinks that they’re all going to start berating him, or laugh, or even just leave the room - but they don’t.

  
  


“You aren’t going to be alone in this, mijo,” his dad says, reassuring with those deep brown eyes. “Neither of you are. We’re all going to be around to help you two get through this, whatever that means in this situation. We’re family, we can do this together.”

  
  


Alex forces back tears, vision blurring. He unclenches his jaw for a moment to speak again. 

  
  


“I know that. I know. It’s- It’s more about me specifically, I guess? I’m supposed to be his right-hand man, you know, the person that he can always lean on, and… I try, but sometimes I just get so scared. It’s hard to think straight. And I really don’t want that to affect him.”

  
  


And there’s only so much of Alex that his parents have seen. They understand the way he ticks, and how hard he pushes himself, and they’re _proud,_ they really are, but - sometimes he thinks that’s not what he needs. 

  
  


June, though. June knows him, right down to his core.

  
  


So when she passes him a handkerchief, one that Pez apparently stole from Shaan’s pocket when he wasn’t looking, he trusts her. He trusts her when she takes a hold of his ankles, right near the edge of the bed, telling him to pay attention.

  
  


And he trusts her when she says: “Alex. He loves you exactly as you are. There is no one in this entire freaking universe that could possibly do better by that man than you, and he _loves_ you for it. You don’t have to be what he needs. You’ve already done that. You just have to keep trying, okay? Don’t give up on him. That’s all he wants.”

  
  


As the tears fall at last, and Leo gives him a supportive thumbs-up that gets everyone to snicker, Alex feels that finally, _finally,_ something makes sense to him. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


Henry gets discharged on a windy day in February, having gotten an extensive prescription of painkillers and the all-clear to ditch the extra oxygen. He’s nothing short of _giddy_ in his wheelchair, cheeks red and eyes shining excitedly every time he turns to look back at Alex.

  
  


“For someone who didn’t want to go home in a wheelchair, you sure don’t seem upset about it,” Alex teases, taking one hand off the handle to fix Henry’s coat collar. 

  
  


“You’d be happy too, if you had someone wiping your arse with a sponge for weeks,” he shoots back airily. “Now put your back into it, I want to be rolling at the speed of _light_ when we go down that side ramp.”

  
  


Alex rolls his eyes but bites back a grin. “Whatever you say, Your Highness.”

  
  


And that’s how Henry steps back into the public eye, with Alex riding the back of his wheelchair down the concrete. A shaky video on June’s phone, the both of them whooping and cackling - all posted on Alex’s Instagram with the caption: _Yes, this idiot’s still alive._

  
  


Bea gets her little brother in a headlock when they reach the car, smothering the side of his face with purposefully spitty kisses. 

  
  


“Beatrice, please, have you no shame- _ouch, that was my eye!”_ Henry protests, poorly suppressing his laughter. She giggles and plops a couple more on his cheek, but eventually shows him mercy. 

  
  


Straightening to put a hand on each of their shoulders, Bea regards them both intently. “I will see you loves in a few hours, alright? No funny business. If either of you gets gunned down on the road, I will bring you back to life just to kill you myself.”

  
  


“We’ll try our best, Bea,” Alex assuages, pulling her into a hug. Her dark curls tickle his nose. “Don’t let Pez drive, he’ll kill all four of y’all.”

  
  


“I can _hear_ you, you twit!” Pez calls from his car, a neon pink Jaguar with a cheap sticker plastered on the rearview window: _Don’t stomp your little last season Prada shoes at me, honey._

  
  


Nora pops her head out from the backseat, chewing unceremoniously on a piece of gum. She gestures at them impatiently. “Let’s _go,_ Bea, I haven’t seen my cat in three fucking weeks.”

  
  


“Yeah, Catsby needs human affection!” June yells after her. 

  
  


“Alright, alright! Love you both!” Taking one last glance at them, Bea hurries over and throws open the door to Pez’s car. He turns “Toxic” by Britney Spears up to full blast, then they’re all flipping Alex off and peeling out into the city streets. 

  
  


“The support I receive from our group of friends is like, astronomical,” Alex says flatly, seeing Henry snicker out of the corner of his eye. “Overwhelming. Really fucking great.”

  
  


“Oh, they love you, darling. You’re just too easy to mess with.” 

  
  


Hoisting Henry up and out of his seat presents its usual challenges, but they’ve practiced enough with midnight trips to the kitchens and their daily walk up and down the Med Unit. It only takes two tries to get him upright this time, which Alex says has to be some kind of record. 

  
  


They’ve got it down to a science now: Henry’s left side tucked securely into Alex’s right, his arm over Alex’s shoulder, Alex’s arm looped around his waist, and Cash tailing not far behind just in case either of their legs decide to give out spontaneously.

  
  


“You know, I rather like using you as a human walker,” Henry comments in between grunts, letting Alex ease him down into the backseat. “You’re surprisingly sturdy.” 

  
  


“And _you..._ are _exceptionally_ heavy.”

  
  


He peers up at Alex with a pout, eyes going exaggeratedly mournful. “It’s all this superhuman muscle weighing me down. I can’t get a thing done.”

  
  


“Or maybe, it’s because you don’t actually use your _legs_ when you walk.” 

  
  


Henry’s voice drops an octave. “That wasn’t what you were saying last night when you shoved your hand down my-”

  
  


Alex shuts the door in his face.

  
  


He’s a ball of energy on the drive home - blabbing Henry’s ear off about how they’re going to have to buy new succulents, because the old ones have got to be dead by now, and all the exams he’s going to have to make up by the end of the semester, and “We have to get one of those dog birthday cakes for David, we just _have_ to, he’s been such a good boy-”

  
  


When Cash eventually takes them to a drive-thru, Henry tries a pastrami melt for the first time and practically collapses against Alex’s shoulder in ecstasy (“This is like arriving at the gates of heaven and being told that the afterlife is a continuous loop of Led Zeppelin concerts.”) 

  
  


They make out at the gas station every time Cash turns his back on them, watching the hours tick by in a haze of bare maple trees and long stretches of freeway. Then, all of a sudden-

  
  


They’re _home,_ standing on the icy steps of their apartment. 

  
  


Like nothing ever happened. Like they went out for a walk one morning and circled around the neighborhood.

  
  


Cash hesitates with his hand on the gearshift, observing them through the car window. “You guys gonna be okay?” 

  
  


Alex stares up at the building for a second, all the ledges and dark colors threatening to swallow him whole. Then his eyes lock on the windowsill of their bedroom, seeing the curtains that have risen up halfway while they were gone. 

  
  


He smiles. Their succulents are still alive.

  
  


“We’re good, Cash,” he calls, taking Henry’s hand in his own. His fingers squeeze Alex’s encouragingly. “Really. Thanks for driving us.”

  
  


“Yeah, well. Some poor soul had to do it.” His demeanor is back to a stoic Secret Service agent, a very professional man doing his very professional job. Alex watches him slip a pair of black sunglasses over his eyes, trying not to smirk, and - well, he just thinks Cash is neat.

  
He turns his attention back to Henry, who’s looking up at their apartment with the locked-up jaw and creased brow that Alex knows all too well. His eyes flick toward the door handle nervously, clearly without any intention of reaching out for it.

  
  


“Hey,” he says, nudging Henry’s shoulder. A couple of blinks and a noncommittal hum is all he receives in response.

  
  


Alex gently pulls Henry’s jaw toward him, urging him to meet his gaze. He speaks quietly into the chilly air. “Hey. It’s gonna be okay.” 

  
  


Henry casts his eyes downward, absently picking at the hem of Alex’s jacket. Then, after a minute of deliberation: “I don’t want to… bring everything inside.” 

  
  


It takes a second for Alex to get what he means - but then it clicks, and Henry’s words hang heavy between them.

  
  


The damage. The pain. Everything that’s different now because of it. 

  
  


Their apartment has always been like a hearth to them. Somewhere so cozy and unquestionably safe that they can always come back to. At the end of the day, when they’re cold and tired and only dragging themselves through the week, they know they have a place waiting for them. 

  
  


Warm and full of love. A refuge from the storm. 

  
  


Now, they have to open the door. Maybe wreck any sense of security they had before, let the wind and hail fly in and pray that the windows don’t shatter. 

  
  


Alex lifts the back of Henry’s hand up to his lips, leaving a kiss there. “We’ll… we’ll work through it, Hen. It’s not gonna be this way forever.” 

  
  


“There’s a part of me that believes that,” he responds. Still refusing to look Alex in the eye. “But there’s another part that is just… so terrified it’ll ruin everything.”

  
  


“It’s not ruining anything. It’s...” Alex tapers off for a second, searching for the right words. “Adding onto what we already have. Another adventure.”

  
  


“A rather gruesome adventure, if you ask me.”

  
  


“That’s not what I meant. Just-” The thoughts are all scrambled in Alex’s brain, confounded and piling on top of one another. He tries to keep his focus on Henry, on his troubled blue eyes, on the way he makes him _feel,_ like there’s nothing he can’t handle when they’re together. 

  
  


He tucks a strand of hair behind Henry’s ear. “This isn’t just home because we only have happy memories in it. It’s home because it has all kinds of memories. The good and the bad.”

  
  


There’s a sweet smile, so tiny that you might miss it if you don’t know where to look. “Like when you got mugged on your way back from the library and walked in without any pants.” 

  
  


Alex laughs, thinking of himself coming through that door, pissed off and wearing only a pair of boxers. Henry had doubled over cackling, snapping a photo or two along the way, but he eventually brought him some clothes. “Yeah, just like that.” 

  
  


“Or when David got his head stuck in a chain-link fence, and we ran all the way home to find the bolt cutters.”

  
  


“That one too,” he agrees, all too happy to see Henry chuckling and remembering the scolding they got from the local police. “It wouldn’t be the same without it, right?”

  
  


Henry lets out a sigh, equal parts amused and conflicted. “I suppose not.”

  
  


“It’s… it’s not perfect, Henry. But I like it that way.” Alex’s hand goes to cup the side of Henry’s face, thumbing the shadows beneath his eyes. His voice drops to a whisper. “I like you that way.”

  
  


Finally, Henry’s eyes flit up to meet his, teary and beautiful and azure. He covers Alex’s hand with his own and kisses the inside of his wrist, which never fails to make Alex’s breath hitch. 

  
  


“So wise, all of a sudden,” he murmurs wetly. That same adorable grin pulling at the ends of his mouth.

  
  


Alex leans in closer, right until their noses touch. “I think being around someone like you all the time will do that to a person.” 

  
  


Then Henry’s pulling him in by the neck, kissing him until he sees stars, until time ceases to exist. The insistent press of his lips, the way his face feels underneath his hands - it never gets old, _never,_ and Alex is smiling into it, swaying on the sunlit porch of their Brooklyn brownstone. 

  
  


And then Henry’s breaking away all too fast, leaving Alex to chase after his mouth, lovesick. But he cracks an impish smirk, and slowly reaches into Alex’s back pocket for the keys.

  
  


They unlock the door together. 

  
  


David is a lightning bolt as he races over to meet them, barking excitedly and nearly jumping up into Henry’s arms. Alex helps him get to the ground, the both of them laughing affectionately, and their wonderful little dog is losing his _mind_ under Henry’s touch. 

  
  


“Hi, boy! Hi! Did you miss me? Huh? Did Shaan take care of you alright?” Henry’s smile is uncontainable, all crinkly and boyish as David comes up to lick his face.

  
  


Alex scratches the spot behind his ears, just the way he likes it. “Gentle, gentle,” he coos, carefully redirecting David away from Henry’s abdomen. “Good boy.” 

  
  


It comes in a rush, like it always does. That feeling, raw in Alex’s chest, that tells him this is where they’re meant to be.

  
  


They spend way too long on the floor of the entryway, letting David bounce between each other and showering him with all sorts of affection. Then Alex’s ass starts to hurt on the hardwood, and in a minute they’re all settling in on the couch, _Return of the Jedi_ playing softly in the background.

  
  


David usually likes to lay down on Henry’s stomach, but all it takes is a few seconds of sniffing around the bandages to rest his head on Henry’s leg instead. They fit together that way, with Henry’s back against Alex’s chest, and David dozing contentedly on top of them both, the faint noises of the city seeping through the cracked windows. 

  
  


When Luke appears, calm and darkly hooded at Jabba’s Palace, they chatter excitedly. And when Leia kisses Han, their lips find each other, too, like a couple of sick wanderers searching deep in the night.

  
  


* * *

  
  


They’ve been home for about three days when things start to go downhill.

  
  


Although going without the oxygen tank isn’t supposed to be _comfortable,_ per se, Alex finds Henry hunched over against a wall or the kitchen counter way too often, gasping like a waterboarded asthmatic. 

  
  


It sets Alex’s teeth on edge, especially since he gets brushed off every time he tries to help. Always with a “I just need a second, love, it’s fine,” before Henry straightens up again, carrying on with the laundry or the dishes or whatever he thinks will give Alex a heart attack the fastest.

  
  


One afternoon, he catches Henry sitting halfway up the stairs. Twiddling his thumbs and staring at Alex blankly. 

  
  


“Hello.”

  
  


“Hi,” Alex responds, dragging out the sound. “Want to tell me what you’re doing up there?”

  
  


“I, er. Well. I thought I could get my laptop from the bedroom by myself.”

  
  


“And how’d that work out for you?”

  
  


“...Not great, honestly.”

  
  


And the days pass by like that, with Henry taking on more than his recovering body can handle and Alex forcing his way in to help. It’s not that much different from how they usually operate, except now Alex can hardly sleep at night without being tucked securely in Henry’s arms. 

  
  


Well, in that case - he supposes it’s not so different at all. 

  
  


Pez and the girls stop by every evening for dinner. Technically, Bea should have gone home with the rest of her family a couple of weeks ago, but, in her words, “If Pip truly needed me for anything, he would call me, and he’d never call me, because he’s insecure about that sort of thing.”

  
  


It’s a relief, having them as a distraction at the end of the day, because otherwise Alex would be neck-deep in court cases and practice exam booklets every minute of his life. He doesn’t regret a second of the time he spent with Henry over the past few weeks - or the past couple of years, really - but holy _shit,_ if he sees another fucking missing assignment pop up on his dash, he’s gonna bang his head against the keyboard.

  
  


And that’s how he ends up with a can of grocery-store beer on a Thursday night, June’s laughter ringing sweetly across the kitchen island. 

  
  


“Okay, but if you had to _choose,_ Hen,” she’s insisting, adding spices to the pozole while Nora stirs, “Harry Styles or Jimin from BTS?”

  
  


He grins in amusement and shakes his head, not looking up from where he’s shredding cabbage. His hair takes on a deeper color in the evening lights, a rich gold that Alex wants to sink his hands into. 

  
  


Henry doesn’t take long to think about it. “That’s just an invalid question. You can’t ask that of a person, it breaks the laws of biology.”

  
  


“There’s only one answer here, Haz, and you know it’s not coming from bloody _One Direction,”_ Pez adds with faux vitriol. Henry sighs, torn.

  
  


“So are you guys just going to ignore the fact that Henry has a boyfriend already? Who just so happens to be me?” 

  
  


Alex’s question is met with a mixture of yesses, yups, and absolutely’s, one of which belongs to Henry himself. His mouth hangs open in comical shock. “Okay, fuck _all_ y’all,” he announces. “I’m literally confiscating your cilantro, it’s all mine now.”

  
  


“No, wait, I need the cilantro-” Nora starts, panicking with a tasting spoon in her mouth.

  
  


“Nope. Fuck off.” 

  
  


He’s raising the bundle high out of Nora’s reach when it happens. She socks him right in the stomach, which makes him yelp and bump into June, and June’s holding the giant pot of soup in her hands-

  
  


And Pez just _jerks_ back to avoid it, elbowing Henry hard, right where his bandages are. 

  
  


Alex’s heart stops dead.

  
  


Everyone lets out a hiss of shared pain, but Henry doesn’t, he _doesn’t,_ just grips the countertop with white knuckles and keels over, his face screwed up tighter than Alex has ever seen. 

  
  


“Fucking shit, Henry, I’m so sorry,” Pez breathes, quiet and horrified. There’s no response from Henry, just small shudders going up his chest as he crunches in on himself. 

  
  


The room has gone so still, it’s like sound isn’t even a real thing anymore. Alex drops the stupid cilantro on the floor and weaves over to his side. “Henry, baby, are you okay?” 

  
  


It’s a ridiculous fucking question to ask, and Henry doesn’t answer. Alex can’t even tell if he’s breathing.

  
  


The words are escaping his mouth before he can even process them. 

  
  


“...What the _fuck,_ Pez?” 

  
  


“I’m sorry, Alex, I’m so sorry, I didn’t know he was there-”

  
  


He’s nothing short of seething when he rounds on him, anger bubbling up so hot and furious that he shouts, “He was two _fucking_ feet behind you the entire time, where the hell did you think he was?” 

  
  


“I didn’t mean to!” Pez’s yell comes back raw and distressed. “I wasn’t thinking-”

  
  


“Yeah, that much is obvious.”

  
  


“For pity’s sake, Alex, you think I wanted to hit him?”

  
  


“I don’t think it _matters,_ asshole, because you did-”

  
  


“It was my fault,” Nora interjects, “I punched you, Alex.”

  
  


“Remind me how that’s relevant to Pez slamming his fucking elbow into Henry’s bullet wound,” he shoots back, failing to keep his voice from trembling. 

  
  


“Oh, don’t be such an asshat.” 

  
  


“Alex-” Bea tries to interrupt.

  
  


He hardly even hears her, just whips his head around to face Nora. “Oh, I’m the asshat here, Nora? Are you kidding me?”

  
  


“No, I’m not. Get a fucking grip.”

  
  


“I would if my boyfriend wasn’t almost _fucking killed_ last month!”

  
  


“Alex, calm down,” June starts, and it only makes his hands give way to shaking, a physical reminder of how terrified he is, all the time now, how Henry’s bleeding out on the ground, and it never stops, it never, _ever_ stops-

  
  


“Get the hell out, Pez,” he spits, not even turning to face him. It’s all he can do to keep his eyes shut and try not to punch anyone.

  
  


The remorse in Pez’s voice is excruciating. “Please, I didn’t-” 

  
  


“Oh, my God, what about ‘get out’ could you not possibly fucking understand?”

  
  


“Alex!” 

  
  


Bea’s shout cuts right through him, because she’s always been the calmest of all of them. It’s almost alien coming out of her mouth. 

  
  


He looks back and sees her gesture incredulously at the empty spot where Henry used to be. There’s a muted click down the hall, which Alex knows is the bathroom door. 

  
  


The hate drains out of him so quickly, he nearly passes out. 

  
  


God, he is an asshat.

  
  


“I’m sorry, Pez,” he tries, moving pointlessly to say more, but Pez waves him off. No apologies needed.

  
  


The kitchen falls silent again as Alex shuffles into the hallway, going immediately for the first door on the right. It’s dark in this spot of the apartment, shielded partly by a line of storage cabinets. 

  
  


Alex can barely make out the sound of sniffling coming through the cracks. He raps his knuckles on the door. “Henry,” he calls gently. “Honey, are you okay?”

  
  


_“I’m- I’m fine,”_ comes Henry’s muffled response, and he’s so clearly sobbing that it makes Alex’s heart clench. 

  
  


He speaks a little louder this time. “I’m gonna come in, okay sweetheart?” 

  
  


_“No, no, that’s alright, y-you don’t have to,”_ he goes, but Alex is already sliding his fingers along the top of the doorframe, finding the spare key they leave up there for emergencies. The door cracks open with a squeak.

  
  


Henry is impossibly small, curled in on himself on the toilet seat lid. He has to stifle another harsh cry when Alex walks in. 

  
  


Alex doesn’t ask any questions, just bundles him up in his arms - cautiously, nowhere below the chest - and pulls his head close. 

  
  


“Shh, baby. I’ve got you,” he murmurs into his hair, rocking him slowly.

  
  


“I’m- I’m _sorry,”_ Henry cries, and it tears Alex to pieces. “I-I’m being difficult.”

  
  


“No, _corazón,”_ he hushes. My heart. “Shh. You didn’t do anything wrong. I shouldn’t have gotten mad.”

  
  


The sobs wrack over him harder, and Alex can feel his lungs fluttering in the way they do now, struggling to keep up. He braces his hand tighter over Henry’s forehead, trying to make him feel safe. “Baby, I need you to calm down for me, okay? Can you do that?”

  
  


He nods, attempting to hold the wails back in his throat, but they keep tearing through in strangled whimpers. “Hurts,” he chokes out.

  
  


“Okay. Okay,” Alex breathes, scrambling to find a fix in his head. Fuck, he wishes he could just _fix it,_ that Henry could be okay right now, laughing at something, or teasing him. Not taking these stuttering reaches for air. 

  
  


Because he doesn’t deserve this. He never did.

  
  


Alex sighs heavily, stressed out of his mind. “Let’s- Let’s have you lie down, alright? In the guest room.”

  
  


There’s a pause where it looks like Henry’s gathering his strength, then he’s nodding again, and clutching at Alex’s shoulders while they get to their feet. He groans into his neck, knees already buckling, but Alex isn’t letting him fall. 

  
  


“It’s okay, baby, you can put your weight on me. There you go.” Alex adjusts his grasp one last time, then they’re trudging carefully out the door. Henry nearly chews his lip off through the pain, but he doesn’t stop walking.

  
  


Alex can just make out the subdued conversations drifting in from the kitchen, hears someone running a mop over the soup June spilled. Right before they make it to the bedroom, Bea’s worried voice carries over from outside the hall:

  
  


“Henry? Love, are you alright?”

  
  


And Henry kind of buries his mouth into Alex’s shoulder, eyes scrunching shut as he shakes his head frantically. He doesn’t need to say anything for Alex to know - he’s had enough attention for today. 

  
  


“Yeah, Bea, we just need a minute,” Alex calls back, hoping that she’ll understand the meaning behind it. 

  
  


No one follows them into the guest room, so he figures they’re in the clear. He haphazardly flicks on one of the bedside lamps, trying to keep his grip sturdy as Henry lowers himself to the bed. 

  
  


Painstakingly, Alex helps him lay down flat, one hand on his neck and the other wrapped around his upper back. “Is that okay, H?” he checks, brushing sweaty hair off Henry’s forehead.

  
  


He can only give the barest tilt of his chin in return, breaths tripping over one another as he tries to get ahold of them. His sweater is forest green, freshly laundered; Alex’s hand lingers at the edge of it.

  
  


“Henry, sweetheart, I have to- I’ve got to check and see if everything’s okay with your ribs, alright?” 

  
  


And he knows every inch of Henry’s middle hurts like hell right now, so he doesn’t want to do it - but the agonized little cries just won’t stop tumbling out of his mouth and Alex has got to make sure he’s okay.

  
  


Henry hesitates for a second, intensely wary of anything going near his chest, but he eventually nods.

  
  


Alex runs off to scrub his hands in the sink, then bunches up Henry’s sweater until he can see the bandage there. He peels it off with meticulous care, tugging lightly at Henry’s skin like Dr. Rivera told him to do. 

  
  


_(Gently. Please, God, let me do this gently.)_

  
  


At first, Henry doesn’t seem to react. But then Alex presses his fingers delicately around the wound, examining the swelling there. 

  
  


Henry’s hand flies up to his mouth; he bites down on it, chokes on a sob. 

  
  


Alex flinches his arm back, feeling like a complete fucking asshole as Henry begins a fresh round of crying. “Sorry, sorry, baby. I’m sorry.”

  
  


_“It’s okay,”_ he whimpers, even though his whole body is locked up and trembling. 

  
  


Alex rubs his thumb soothingly above Henry’s hip. His chest doesn’t look good, with the skin all irritated and flushed a deeper shade of red than normal. 

  
  


He lays a few kisses on the planes of Henry’s stomach, gingerly sealing the bandage closed. “I’m gonna get you the harder painkillers Dr. Rivera prescribed, okay, babe?”

  
  


“I-I don’t need them,” Henry says shakily, catching Alex by the shirt sleeve before he can leave. “It’s not so bad.”

  
  


“Sweetheart, you’re in fucking tears. We’re getting you high.”

  
  


_“Alex.”_ His big blue eyes are pleading, and Alex would probably have given in by now if he didn’t see how inflamed that wound looked. “I’ll be okay, I promise.” 

  
  


“I’m sure you will be, after a healthy dose of Vicodin.”

  
  


_"No._ I’m not going to take anything.”

  
  


Alex sticks his hands on his hips, impatient. “Henry, come on, are you serious?”

  
  


And he _hates_ this shit, having to get stern and dig his heels in when he sees Henry overextending himself. But Henry just doesn’t _get it,_ he doesn’t get that he’s the reason why the whole world goes around, that he is the Most Important Thing, and Alex doesn’t know if he’ll have to spend the rest of his life convincing him of that. 

  
  


But he would. Without a second thought, he would.

  
  


“Henry.”

  
  


A moment flickers by. Then - those eyes turning up to him, mournful and welling with tears. 

  
  


“I’m- I’m _sorry,”_ Henry manages, devastated. “I don’t want to force you all to look after me. I- I’ve already ruined everyone’s night.”

  
  


And while the words still punch Alex in the gut, he’s expecting it, because it makes sense. Because-

  
  


_(Of course. Of course you would be thinking about us.)_

  
  


“Hey.” Alex is kneeling down by his side, swiping the wetness from his cheeks. He braces his hands there, tilting Henry’s head down so they’re looking right at each other. “You did _not._ None of this is your fault, okay? We were the ones not paying attention. If anything, I think we ruined your night.”

  
  


Henry sniffles, reaching over to thumb at Alex’s collarbone. His hands are trembling - always, always trembling now. 

  
  


“...I just hate making such a fuss all the time.” 

  
  


And that’s another piece of Henry that Alex has had to slot into his brain over the years. The fact that everyone’s _watching,_ constantly, even when the worst things are happening to him, and sometimes it feels like there’s nowhere left in the world for Henry to go.

  
  


Alex will make a place for him. He swears. He’ll build it with his bare hands if he has to.

  
  


He leans down to kiss him, tender and singing with all the words he doesn’t say. “You can kick up as much of a fuss as you damn well please. I swear, Hen, no one’s gonna think any less of you for it. You’re fucking incredible, and you’re allowed to be hurting.”

  
  


In Henry’s eyes, Alex can see himself switch on all the stars in the sky. They’re red-rimmed and damp at the lashes, and he adores the way they _change,_ how they still look as gorgeous when they’re bloodshot as they do when Henry’s lighting up inside.

  
  


“I love you,” Henry whispers, tracing circles over Alex’s jaw. “Infinitely.”

  
  


Alex grins, reaching up to take his hand. “Shit, man. That’s a lot.”

  
  


When they eventually pad their way back into the kitchen, Henry’s on the slim line between feeling better and getting loopy. June and Nora are talking in hushed tones over on the couch, and the instant Pez sees them, he’s on his feet. 

  
  


He wrings his hands in front of them, looking uncharacteristically subdued. 

  
  


“Henry, mate, I’m so sorry-” 

  
  


And he doesn’t get to finish what he was saying, because Henry’s hugging him. Soft, but steady. 

  
  


Alex can just make out Henry’s fond whisper of, “It’s alright, Pezza,” before he heads to the kitchen, deciding the conversation deserves some privacy. 

  
  


Bea is poised coolly on the kitchen counter, nursing a gigantic mug of tea in her lap. She eyes him questionably as he ladles a bowl of pozole from the pot. 

  
  


“How is he?” Her prodding is soft, and she nudges his leg with her sneakers.

  
  


“Currently?” Alex raises an eyebrow. “About to exit the stratosphere.”

  
  


“Ah. So it was bad.”

  
  


“That’s putting it lightly,” he grumbles, tossing some chopped onions into the soup. The kitchen smelled mouthwatering earlier, flooded with the scent of seared chicken and rich, familiar herbs, but now it only serves to make him nauseous.

  
  


She lifts the tea to her mouth. Pauses. “He’ll be alright, Alex. You know he will.”

  
  


He concentrates on grinding up spices between his fingertips, and not on the ton of bricks weighing down on his chest. “Yeah, I know, Bea.” 

  
  


But that doesn’t make it hurt any less.

  
  


Bea observes him for a second, all dark eyelashes in the dim artificial light, then reaches for the bowl in his hands. “Go on upstairs and collect yourself, love. I’ll help Hen with this.”

  
  


He wavers, staring at her with a hint of confusion. “How did you know-”

  
  


“You’re an open book, Alexander.” Slipping off the countertop, she takes the soup from him. Flashes him an affectionate, lopsided grin. “And a complete sap for my brother.”

  
  


He smiles sadly and pecks her on the cheek. 

  
  


After changing into sweatpants and washing his hands so many times that his knuckles start to split open, Alex wanders into the living room again. It’s only seven, but New York is bitterly cold this time of year, and he’s kind of really fucking exhausted. From everything.

  
  


Then he hears Henry’s laughter floating over from the couch, and, well. Being tired would just have to wait.

  
  


Bea’s got him splayed across her lap, the both of them snickering as she tries to airplane food into his mouth. His eyelids are droopier than usual, movements a little more careless. 

  
  


He outright chortles when Bea misses on her trajectory, spilling hominy all the way down his chin, and then they’re just a pile of crinkly-eyed smiles and mussed-up hair. Alex scoffs. 

  
  


Don’t need painkillers, his ass. 

  
  


Pez and Nora are sprawled out on the floor, bickering over her phone - some Twitter thread about _Finding Nemo_ (“I’m _telling_ you, Pez, Coral was a fucking cannibal and Marlin’s son was just a figment of his imagination.” “You’re barking, Nora.” “I’m _right,_ is what I am!”) 

  
  


June hands him a blanket automatically when he approaches, leaning on his forearms over the back of the couch. “Nora’s ruining my childhood,” she tells him, just watching the scene unfold. “I can never watch Pixar movies again.”

  
  


“Well, it’s not like you date her for her taste in movies,” Alex quips, a smirk springing up fast on his lips. 

  
  


“I guess not.” June tilts her head back against the couch cushions, furrows her brows. “I was more of a Dreamworks kid, anyway.”

  
  


Alex opens his mouth to dissect the cinematic masterpiece that is the _How To Train Your Dragon_ trilogy, but the sound of Henry’s exaggerated stage-whispering cuts over that thought.

  
  


_“Bea,”_ he hisses-slash-yells into her ear. She entertains him with enthusiasm, craning her head down to listen. “Just _who_ is that bloke over there?”

  
  


_Oh my fucking God,_ Alex thinks, holding back a laugh, and June slaps a hand over her mouth to stifle her own giggles. In a split-second decision, he plays along, turning his head away from Henry and pretending not to listen. 

  
  


He can hear Bea’s broad smile in the lilt of her words. “That’s Alex,” she explains happily. “He _fancies_ you.”

  
  


“Oh, he’s _proper_ fit.”

  
  


Alex lets out the snort of the fucking century into June’s hair, and she’s burying her face into a pillow, shaking with laughter. 

  
  


His accent is coming out in full force under the heavy influence of two whole Vicodin pills, words blending into each other endearingly as he slurs, “D’you think he’d like to be my boyfriend?” 

  
  


And it hits Alex again that he is nothing short of _enamored_ with this man. Head-over-fucking-heels in love.

  
  


He can’t help himself. “I already am your boyfriend, Henry.”

  
  


Henry’s eyes blow wide at the revelation, mouth dropping open comically. “Are you really?”

  
  


“Yes, honey.”

  
  


_“Christ.”_

  
  


Henry gets reacquainted to him quickly, propping his feet up in Alex’s lap when he finally comes over to sit. He flings the throw blanket over all three of them, with Henry getting the most of it, cozied in Bea’s embrace while she plays with strands of his hair. 

  
  


He chatters sluggishly about how Alex is just the _best boyfriend_ _ever,_ how _huge_ and _bloody legendary_ their wedding is going to be, and Alex just hopes his face won’t betray how his stomach is doing backflips.

  
  


Bea smirks devilishly from the other end of the couch. He must be real shit at hiding things.

  
  


It takes all of twenty minutes for Henry to finally tire himself out, totally relaxed into Bea’s magical scalp-massaging fingertips, and Alex shakes one of his ankles lightly.

  
  


“Hen.”

  
  


“Huh?” he mumbles drowsily, not quite opening his eyes. 

  
  


“Pick a movie for us to watch, babe.”

  
  


“...Blergh.”

  
  


_“Iron Man 3_ it is.”

  
  


He doesn’t make it thirty seconds into the opening scene, passed out with flushed cheeks and the barest of smiles. 

  
  


Alex sighs lengthily. This man will be the death of him one day.

  
  


He just manages to relax into the cushions when Pez perks up from his seat on the carpet. 

  
  


“Alright, babes. Who wants to draw a dick on Haz’s forehead first?”

  
  


* * *

  
  


The apartment is quiet when they finally carry Henry up to bed, save for the sound of his feet banging against every wall. Pez has to hook his arms around Henry’s knees once they reach the staircase, and Alex will never admit it, not until the day he fucking dies - but 5’8 _is_ short in comparison to his giraffe of a boyfriend. 

  
  


He’s kind of pissed that he’s even thinking it, making sure to hoist Henry farther up so Pez _knows_ he’s taking most of the weight. But then Henry makes a small noise, tucking his head closer into the dip of Alex’s chest, and- 

  
  


Yeah, he’ll get over it. 

  
  


They set his head gently against the pillows, a surge of warmth going through him when he sees Henry’s cheek smush against them. He slides the blanket over him, grazes a kiss on his temple.

  
  


“You text me when he wakes up, okay?” June’s whispering, hugging Alex soundly. 

  
  


He holds her closer, gives a little squeeze. “I will, Bug. Thanks for putting up with us.”

  
  


She laughs. A fond, hushed exhale into his neck. “You know I don’t get paid enough for this shit.”

  
  


Alex shakes his head, smiling, and moves to say goodbye to the others. June grabs his arm again.

  
  


“Wait, shit - here, I almost forgot.” She rummages around in her purse and pulls up a crinkled blue packet, peeling back one of the corners. He stares at it blankly, long enough to make June roll her eyes. “Makeup wipes. For his forehead.”

  
  


Alex grins, the image of Nora doodling a penis on Henry’s sleeping face still fresh in his mind. “You girls really think of everything, don’t you?”

  
  


“We _do,”_ Pez chimes in, arms linked with Bea. “In fact, Alexander, right now I’m thinking that you need to go to _sleep._ Oh, you poor thing, I could just- knock him over with a leafblower, you know-”

  
  


_“Alright,_ alright, you assholes, get out of my house, then, scram-”

  
  


And he’s ushering everyone out into the hallway, not bothering to follow them out. They know to lock up, and Alex feels so fucking _tired,_ like his bones are being crushed, and the front door is so _far-_

  
  


_“I’m taking the helados home with me, by the way!”_ Nora shouts from downstairs. He silently fumes at the fact that he can’t yell back at her. Not with Henry finally getting some rest in their bed.

  
  


He sighs, distantly hearing the last of their company shuffle out. Tugs at his hair - just for a minute, just to try and make everything stop, to get the tightness in his gut to go away. 

  
  


_Henry’s fine,_ he thinks while brushing his teeth. Again and again, as he strips down into his boxers: _Henry’s fine. He’s safe now. We’re safe._

  
  


And usually it helps, to settle in against the length of Henry’s back at night, under the cool blankets and sheets. To encase him right in his arms. But he’s wound up so rigidly, springs and coils and all sorts of rickety snapping things inside, and Alex doesn’t _feel_ safe, not even when he buries his face into the crook of Henry’s shoulder.

  
  


That’s when the nightmares start to come, and they don’t ever stop.

  
  


Henry’s too wiped out that time to hear Alex bolting up in bed, gasping for breaths that don’t bring anything of use. Biting down hard into his arm to stop making so much noise, while tears run hot down his face.

  
  


And he knows he promised, he _promised_ that they were going to do this together - but this is a one-time thing, and maybe it’s better that Henry doesn’t know. 

  
  


It’s not a one-time thing. 

  
  


Alex figures this out when he wakes up for the fourth night in a row, feeling like he’s gonna die, like all the air has been sucked straight out of the room, like it’s two in the morning and Henry’s not really here next to him and it _hurts-_

  
  


He drags himself along as the days go by, trying to hold onto anything that’s real, that he can trust. When he helps Henry take his first shower in months, with actual running water and everything, Alex skims soapy fingers over the solid lines of his chest. Studies every inch of his excited smile and kisses it, really kisses it, like he won’t slip right out of his hands at any minute.

  
  


And when nighttime crawls around, Alex shuts his eyes, carefully, so he won’t actually fall asleep, and waits for Henry’s arms to relax around him. 

  
  


Then he might slide out of bed. Run a couple miles around the neighborhood, get an early start on some of his assignments on the kitchen counter. 

  
  


Anything. Anything but sleep. 

  
  


Henry’s solidly under the impression that law school is back for Alex in full swing - which is true, for the most part - and he doesn’t question the way Alex dozes off on top of his notes in the middle of the day like a narcoleptic kitten. He just brings him coffee, exactly the way he likes it, or wrestles his way onto Alex’s lap while he types away on the computer. 

  
  


_Bless this man’s soul,_ Alex pleads through the hazy mess of his thoughts, feeling Henry mouth his way up Alex’s neck and back, straddling him close in the office chair. 

  
  


It’s simultaneously the best and worst he’s ever felt, seeing Henry’s body slowly patch itself up while Alex’s own mind tumbles into insanity. He knows he can’t keep it up forever, but he tries. He really, really does.

  
  


Everything comes to a head one night, when New York falls under a kind of chill that doesn’t bring any snow. Alex dreams of blood red rivers and ashes drifting down from the sky. 

  
  


The fear is paralyzing, bleeding into itself, disjointed images and sensations - always building up to the moment where Henry’s _gone,_ where they lose him that day in the operating room, and he won’t ever see him again, and Alex’s heart is _dead in his chest-_

  
  


_“Alex, love, you’re okay. Please wake up for me, darling, please, you’re okay.”_

  
  


He’s being shaken awake; it takes an eternity for his head to stop splitting apart at the seams. 

  
  


Then, all at once: the world comes back into focus, and Henry’s panicked blue eyes are scanning over Alex’s own in the dark, like nothing has changed at all. 

  
  


Alex tries to suck in a breath. Doesn’t find it. And he lets out a final, broken sob.

  
  


“Oh- _oh,_ my love, shh,” Henry coos, gently scooping his arms around Alex and cradling his head. “You’re alright. It was just a bad dream, Alex, I’ve got you. Shh.”

  
  


But Alex can’t think straight anymore, he just cries, grabbing fistfuls of Henry’s shirt like it’ll somehow make the pain stop. Henry desperately tries to thumb his tears away, but they just keep coming, gunshots and skinned knees and hands going slack, along with the babbling pleas spilling from his mouth: _“Please, please. Please.”_

  
  


“Please, what, love? What do you need?” Henry sounds shattered, trying to pull Alex even closer underneath his chin. Shielding him, protecting him, just like he always does. 

  
  


The words are toppling out before Alex even hears what he’s saying. _“Don’t go, Henry. Please, please, don’t go.”_

  
  


There’s a swallow going down Henry’s throat that might as well be a million miles away from him. Then he’s kissing the side of Alex’s face, his temple, all the hidden places he can find, murmuring, “I’m not going anywhere, Alex. I’m right here.”

  
  


And he’s shifting Alex’s head up his chest a bit, right over the steady beat of his heart, whispering, “Here, listen. I’m alright. Shh, listen love.” 

  
  


Alex lets the sound fill him up, every empty crack and hole, until it’s just him and Henry’s thumping pulse and nothing else in this whole God forsaken world. 

  
  


_He’s right here._ The thought passes far off and strange in the back of his mind, and there’s a thickness to Henry’s voice that tells him he’s crying, too. 

  
  


But none of that matters. Because he’s right here.

  
  


For once, Alex doesn’t argue. Not as Henry bundles him up in layers and layers of fuzzy blankets, or as he smooths out the tension between his brows. Not as he fumbles for his copy of _Pride and Prejudice_ on the nightstand, muttering the first chapter into Alex’s ear while his sobs taper off. 

  
  


He’s not saying it anymore, but Alex can still feel it. Clings to the words like a lifeline. 

  
  


_I’m right here, love._

  
  


_Forever, forever, forever._

  
  


* * *

  
  


Henry barely lets Alex out of his sight after that. He doesn’t have it in him to feel guilty anymore at the way Henry fusses, staying up with him at all hours of the night, because he figures they’re both in this now. Maybe for the rest of their lives. 

  
  


The nightmares don’t let up, but they become easier to handle. _Henry_ makes them easier to handle. 

  
  


It kind of makes Alex feel like the worst person on the planet. He wasn’t the one that got actually fucking _shot,_ and yet his boyfriend is here making him lavender tea before bed and buying weighted blankets that make Alex think he’s back in the womb. 

  
  


There’s no way that Henry’s as fine as he’s letting on. Alex hears him go into coughing fits when he thinks no one will notice; he sees him stare off into space at random points of the day, with his jaw clenched and the damn corner of his mouth pinching up like he’s eaten something sour. 

  
  


He prods and pokes, constantly checking in, giving Henry an opening to say something, but nothing works. 

  
  


_Just be here,_ he repeats to himself. A mantra, for every time Henry switches the conversation, or sends Alex a bland smile. _Be here for him._

  
  


Henry needs time, and Alex can wait.

  
  


Because he’ll steal a long glance at Henry now and then, while he’s watering the plants in their windowsill. Eyes drowsy, with his hair almost amber in the sun - and Alex just thinks, _Anything. Anything you want, babe._

  
  


It’s what he’s breathing into Henry’s ear now, settling beneath his weight. Kissing him so strongly that his fingertips make little bruises in the dip of Alex’s stomach. 

  
  


_“You,”_ Henry pants out, lips rosy and hardly breaking from Alex’s skin. “I want you. Just you.”

  
  


And Alex tells him the sentiment is mutual as he grapples for the edge of Henry’s shirt, tossing it somewhere in the room that is absolutely Not Fucking Important at the moment, racing to close the gap between their bodies again. 

  
  


Because he needs to know that Henry’s real right now. He had woken up for the hundredth, the thousandth time, even, feeling like everything was over - and he didn’t hesitate, just nudged Henry awake and pulled him in and asked him to make it better. 

  
  


He always does. His dumbass boyfriend who calls Alex his darling and smiles when he burns dinner. 

  
  


The love of his fucking life. 

  
  


_“Baby,”_ Alex finds himself crying out as Henry tries to suck a hole in the side of his neck, every cell in his body electrified and he feels- God, he fucking feels-

  
  


The sensation stops. Alex floats back to himself abruptly, finding Henry’s forehead resting against his shoulder. 

  
  


He’s panting up a storm all of a sudden, way too hard to pass as just being turned on. A tiny pit of dread lands in Alex’s stomach - it’s familiar, something that he knows can’t go ignored. 

  
  


Instinctively, he threads his fingers through Henry’s hair. Tries to catch his own breath. “Hey. You okay?”

  
  


But Henry’s lips are right back against Alex’s, crushing in a way that erases any semblance of thought in his head. “Fine, love,” he offers quickly. 

  
  


Alex is about to follow-up on it, because _okay, bullshit,_ but someone’s hand has found the waist of his pajama pants, and - _fuck, fuckity, fucking shit -_ it’s all over now. 

  
  


It doesn’t take two seconds for the ceiling to resemble more of a galaxy than drywall. Alex wants to get lost in it, to forget anything and everything except for the way Henry’s fingers feel when he does that thing with his wrist, and he almost does, he _almost-_

  
  


Henry pulls away again, eyes clamped shut while he gasps for another breath, and Alex is coming down for real this time. He brings a sweaty hand to the side of Henry’s face, weakly grabbing for his attention. “Baby, hey. I don’t like the sound of that.” 

  
  


“It’s _nothing,_ Alex,” he insists, but he hesitates near Alex’s lips, something wary crossing over his features. Then Henry’s forcing their mouths together more than anything else, and the feeling in Alex’s gut is such a contrast to what it was five minutes ago, because it’s not right, not at _all._

  
  


There’s a second where Alex just doesn’t know what to do, because this hasn’t happened before. Henry’s always been the careful one when it comes to sex. Attentive, near religious in making sure not to overstep any of Alex’s boundaries, and just about bursting into tears when he does it on accident. 

  
  


So to have this - Henry not responding to him, not drawing back the instant either of them gets uncomfortable - it freaks Alex the hell out. 

  
  


He feels Henry’s chest shudder under his hands, and he lets out a little distressed noise into Alex’s mouth that has him shoving him back by the shoulders. “Henry, _stop-”_

  
  


In a split-second, all the weight is gone from Alex’s body. 

  
  


It’s not a relief. He wants to say something, but any words he might find get caught in his throat. 

  
  


Henry’s got his back turned on him, standing in his boxers at the side of the room. His breathing is downright ragged as he squeezes himself around the middle, and it tugs at Alex’s heartstrings enough to make him start: “Baby-”

  
  


_“Fuck!”_

  
  


The stack of books on their bedside table are making a racket as they scatter to the floor _._ Henry’s Shakespeares, his Jane Austens - all of them shoved aside, as if they weren’t some of his most treasured possessions. 

  
  


There’s a silence that passes over the room, something irreversible and suffocating. Alex feels sick. 

  
  


Henry picks up two books before he begins to cry. 

  
  


He throws himself out of bed now, because this is the final straw. Henry sobbing on the freezing hardwood floor is not allowed, not now, not _ever._

  
  


Even though he’s taller, Henry’s lost a shit ton of weight over the past couple months, and all Alex can think of is how light he feels in his hands. How he just wants to scoop him up and run, far away from all the suffering and grief so nothing can ever hurt him again.

  
  


He presses Henry close to his heart as he cries, and knows he’d sell his soul just to make it stop.

  
  


Alex tangles his legs around Henry’s, trying to keep as much of him warm as possible; his lips mutter the only comfort he can offer: “Hey, sweetheart. Hey. Shh, it’s okay.”

  
  


_“It’s not,”_ Henry sobs, clutching at Alex’s arms, his neck. They go back and forth like that, with Alex telling him _It is, it’s okay, baby, I promise_ and Henry shaking his head inconsolably.

  
  


Every little sob that comes out of his mouth splinters Alex apart, but he just holds him through it, helping him ride it out. He counts down the minutes until Henry’s easing in his arms, red-nosed, skimming his fingers up and down Alex’s bare chest. 

  
  


“I’m sorry,” Henry whispers, small and detached. “I’m sorry.”

  
  


And it’s Alex’s turn to shake his head, because no, they’re not doing that tonight. “You don’t have to be sorry for anything, baby. It’s my fault for not checking in earlier.” 

  
  


He senses Henry tense up at that, gnaw up his lip a little before speaking. “You… You shouldn’t have to check, Alex.”

  
  


Puzzled, he pulls his head back. “What?” 

  
  


And it’s even worse, now, because Henry’s sitting up and out of his reach. His hair is a fucking wreck, eyes bloodshot, and it sends a pang through Alex’s chest, like red-hot fire. “I said _you shouldn’t have to check.”_

  
  


“Okay, that’s- _bullshit?_ We’re in a relationship, Henry, this is the kind of stuff you have to talk about.”

  
  


“I’m not- I can’t _give_ you that anymore, Alex-”

  
  


“Give me- fucking, _what,_ Hen?”

  
  


“A normal fucking relationship!” 

  
  


And now Alex can laugh, because apparently his boyfriend’s a comedian. “Honey, I’m sorry, but none of this has ever been normal. That’s kind of the entire reason we’re here right now.”

  
  


It wasn’t the right thing to say, which Alex is used to. Still, it hurts to see Henry staring at him like that, with so many thoughts swirling around inside that he can’t articulate. 

  
  


Alex leans his head against the side of the bed, feeling a migraine coming on in the back of his skull. “Let’s just go to _sleep,_ baby. Seriously. We don’t have to do anything tonight, I was just-”

  
  


“But you wanted tonight,” Henry interrupts, grasping for his hand on the hardwood. His voice is catching again, right at the brink of collapse, and he won’t look Alex in the eye. “You needed me, _tonight,_ and I couldn’t- Fuck, I can’t even provide you with the most _basic_ of needs, anymore, because I’m just- stuck in this _stupid fucking body-”_

  
  


“Hey!” Alex shouts, and he hooks his fingers around Henry’s chin, forcing his gaze up. He keeps him there - motionless, so he can absorb every word - and breathes: “You don’t get to say that shit. Not to my favorite person in the whole fucking world.”

  
  


Henry’s eyes are teary, drained beyond measure. It’s a fucking atrocity. 

  
  


His reply is a million pieces of shattered bone, all coming together to whisper: “But it’s true-”

  
  


“It’s _not._ Henry. For fuck’s sake. This ‘stupid fucking body’ survived getting _shot._ Forgive it if it needs a little time to recover.”

  
  


“But I’m not _going_ to recover,” he urges, covering Alex’s hand with his own. “You- You didn’t hear what Dr. Rivera said before we left-”

  
  


“Yeah I did, something about that gyro place around the corner-”

  
  


“Christ, Alex, I don’t mean the gyro place, just-” He glances toward the ceiling briefly, like he’s gonna find the words somewhere in the paint there. Then his eyes are flitting back down to the floor, voice wavering as he sighs. “I’m going to be all messed up for the rest of my life.”

  
  


Alex rubs his thumb across Henry’s palm, working him through it. “There’s physical therapy for that, honey.”

  
  


“Physical therapy doesn’t _fix_ everything. I’m- I’ll never be who I was before, Alex, I don’t-”

  
  


“Then good fucking riddance,” he spits. “I don’t care about who you were _before,_ whatever the hell that means, I care about who you are _right now.”_

  
  


Henry’s head seems to hang even lower, so Alex reaches out to cup his face, to steady him. He leans into the touch, eyes fluttering shut. “Alex… I can’t walk up the stairs without having a bloody asthma attack.”

  
  


“That’s what the inhaler’s for, dumbass-”

  
  


“I can’t run. I can’t play with the kids at the shelter like I used to.” He grows smaller with every sentence, closing in on himself in a way that makes Alex’s eyes sting. 

  
  


The next one comes quieter, like it’s the worst of them all. “I can’t lift my arms high enough to reach the top shelf, Alex.”

  
  


And Alex fucking _shakes_ him, fed up. “So _what?_ I’ll build you a new one!”

  
  


“All of your favorite mugs are on the top shelf!”

  
  


He shuts up after that. Can’t get out a single word, because _oh, Henry knows,_ and _of course, he knows,_ and there are tears pricking up in both of their eyes. 

  
  


“I know you keep them there just so I can grab them for you,” Henry says thickly, weaker than before.

  
  


Alex wipes at his own eyes quickly, sniffling like a baby. “I like the way your shirt rides up a little when you do it-”

  
  


“Well, I can’t do it anymore.” 

  
  


They take a minute to just rest there together, hands intertwined and tears plopping in tiny puddles on the ground. Feeling every second of what they’ve gone through the past few months, what they will go through in the years to follow.

  
  


For once, it’s Henry who cuts the silence first - raspy and low and so, so heartbroken. “You shouldn’t have to deal with... _this_ forever.” 

  
  


Alex doesn’t need to ask to know he’s talking about himself, and that’s _it_ for him, because Henry doesn’t _understand._ He doesn’t know how much it kills Alex every time he thinks about what might have happened, the fucked-up version of reality that almost turned into his own.

  
  


Henry’s arms, out of reach. A casket in the ground.

  
  


He scoots in closer to him on the hardwood, ghosting shaky fingers over the line of his jaw; the others meet his scar, ragged and angry red over his ribcage. Henry’s breath catches under his touch, every detail of his face coming into beautiful, aching focus. 

  
  


_“...Baby,”_ Alex chokes, attempting and failing to hold back his tears. “I’d give - _anything -_ to deal with you forever. When are you going to get that through your head?”

  
  


A sob rips out of Henry’s throat, and when he presses his lips to Alex’s again, he means it. 

  
  


They’re a total mess. A trainwreck in a pile of discarded clothes and old English lit books. 

  
  


But Alex couldn’t ask for anything more.

  
  


Henry pauses to rest their foreheads together, thumbing the tears away from Alex’s cheekbones. “I’m sorry, love, I just- I can’t do this tonight.”

  
  


“That’s okay, sweetheart,” he whispers, soft into the space between them. “You don’t ever have to apologize for that.”

  
  


“My lungs, my entire chest, it- it just _burns_ sometimes, like it's on fire, and I can’t bloody _breathe._ Every day, I- there’s never enough air, and it aches where it went in, it aches so badly, Alex, it _hurts.”_

  
  


And Alex hugs him until there’s nothing left, until he’s got him wrapped up so tightly that nobody, _nobody_ can touch him. 

  
  


“Henry, honey,” he tries tentatively, once the waves of tears trickle out into soft cries. “Maybe we should give Dr. Rivera a call. I think… I think you need to get back on the oxygen tank.”

  
  


Henry’s arms tighten around him at that, face buried in Alex’s neck. He has to strain to hear the muffled reply:

  
  


“But I don’t _want_ to. I don’t want to go backward. I should be getting better by now.”

  
  


“Recovery isn’t linear, Hen,” Alex murmurs. “You know this. Just because you need extra support doesn’t mean that you’re erasing your progress.”

  
  


His fingers trace up and down Henry’s spine, something that’s always been soothing for the both of them. He can tell Henry isn’t convinced at the way his shoulders slump, head drooping at the crook of Alex’s neck. 

  
  


Bringing his nose closer to the side of Henry’s head, he nudges him a little. “Baby, look at me. Hey.”

  
  


He seems loathe to do it, but Henry pulls his face out of its hiding place, staring at Alex dejectedly. Alex slides a thumb across his worried brow, gently kisses the skin on his forehead. 

  
  


“You _are_ getting better. You’ve already come so damn far, I mean- when you first woke up, you couldn’t breathe at all on your own. Now look at you. You’re fucking amazing, you know that? You blow my mind, H.” 

  
  


And here comes that color to Henry’s eyes now, endless and warm, the sky in the summertime. Alex can hardly believe that it’s his to see. 

  
  


He lets Henry press another kiss to his lips, one more on top of the thousands they’ve had together; always one more, please, just one more. 

  
  


When they part, Alex is dizzy, so much love in him that he could collapse from the force of it all. But Henry is there for every minute of it, propping him up with his hands, his laughter, the dumb faces he makes in the mirror while they’re brushing their teeth. 

  
  


_Thank you,_ he thinks, because saying it out loud doesn’t seem like it would be enough. _Thank you, Henry._

  
  


“Thank you, love,” Henry echoes softly. “I- I know this hasn’t been easy for you, either. And I’ll always be here for you, of course, but…”

  
  


There’s a long pause where Henry just frowns at the floorboards, not wanting to overstep.

  
  


“But what, honey?” Alex coaxes.

  
  


“...Alex, have you ever thought about going to therapy?”

  
  


Oh. That’s new. 

  
  


“Um… not really, I guess?” Henry listens intently, careful eyes trained on Alex’s own. He swallows. “I, uh. I didn’t really think that I needed it.”

  
  


Henry smiles, a little sadly, tracing his fingers along Alex’s knee. “I didn’t think so, either, in the beginning. But it helps. Truly. Even if it’s only to have someone to talk to.”

  
  


Alex’s mind wanders. Images flashing by, bits and pieces of Henry, young and grieving, all alone in his million rooms. 

  
  


It’s not comfortable. He’s not used to asking for help, much. 

  
  


But Henry makes him feel like it’s okay.

  
  


“Okay,” Alex whispers, small but sure. “That’s- that sounds like a good idea.”

  
  


“You don’t have to, if you aren’t-”

  
  


“No, no, I want to. It’s just- I’m gonna need some time to get used to it.”

  
  


Henry drops a kiss to the crown of his head, smiling. “I’ll be with you every step of the way. Cheering you on from the sidelines like a good supportive boyfriend.”

  
  


It draws out a laugh from Alex’s chest. “You would’ve shown up to my lacrosse games with my jersey number painted on your forehead.”

  
  


_“Pez_ would have shown up like that. I’d be the one waiting near the field for my victory kiss.”

  
  


“Oh, you _would_ now?”

  
  


“I most certainly would.”

  
  


Their lips meet again, because it’s the only option, and Henry’s so close that his eyelashes are tickling Alex’s cheek.

  
  


There’s a second here that passes, he notices. And another there. And Alex is going to combust because he gets to spend each of them with his foolish, ridiculous, wonderful man. 

  
  


Henry inches back by a hairsbreadth. Then, into the sliver of air between them: “Will you come sit outside with me?”

  
  


Alex blinks, his brain hazy and completely unprepared for whatever that’s supposed to mean. “...What?”

  
  


“I want to sit on the fire escape for a bit.”

  
  


“You- Hen, it’s four in the morning.”

  
  


Henry only smiles at that, reaching across the floor for his clothes. “It is. We might just catch the sunrise.”

  
  


Now Alex’s mind is really kicking back into gear, because Henry’s wriggling through his shirt, and he’s joking. He’s joking.

  
  


He’s not joking.

  
  


“Henry, I love you, but it’s colder than a Costco freezer section up in this bitch.” 

  
  


“I don’t even know what a Costco is.”

  
  


“I- You don’t- _What?”_ Alex shouts, but Henry’s already pushing the window open in a biting gust of wind, hopping onto the fire escape in a ratty old Queen t-shirt and his fucking underwear, and-

  
  


“Motherfucker, he’s actually serious, fucking- _Henry, are you fucking kidding me right now?_ Oh my God.” 

  
  


* * *

  
  


“Get your _pasty_ ass back inside this house before I beat it.”

  
  


“You could try.” 

  
  


Henry’s cheeks are already chafed pink from the frigid air, and it pisses Alex off because he wants to kiss them. “You’re going to freeze to death.”

  
  


“I think it’s been well and clearly established that I am immortal.”

  
  


He glares at him. Henry blinks back, barely suppressing a smile.

  
  


_“Padre nuestro que estás en el cielo, santificado sea tu nombre,”_ Alex recites under his breath, ducking back inside the house. 

  
  


Any other time, he’d be the one pushing Henry to do stupid shit, really. But Henry’s got a hole in his chest now, and Alex considers it his personal responsibility to make sure this idiot doesn’t catch pneumonia.

  
  


“Do you want to send me to an early grave, Wales? Is that what this is?” 

  
  


He’s decidedly ungraceful as he clambers back out the window, arms full of their entire duvet, a silk sheet, and two knit blankets he nabbed from June and Nora’s apartment. 

  
  


Henry’s arms come up to steady him, a shit-eating grin playing on his lips. “No, I just knew you’d follow me out here.” 

  
  


Alex chucks a throw blanket into his face. Mortally wounded or not, he’s still a pain in the ass. 

  
  


“This is psychotic. Internalized homophobia at its worst,” he huffs while he tosses the comforter around them both, shivering violently on the metal railing. 

  
  


He didn’t want to waste time putting a shirt on, which probably wasn’t the smartest decision ever. But Henry’s automatically wrapping his arms around him under the blanket cover, what little body heat he has to offer seeping into Alex’s bones, and - yeah, okay, this isn’t so bad.

  
  


They stay like that for a while, with Henry’s hands rubbing dutifully over Alex’s upper arms. It’s still pitch black outside, but the sky is clear. 

  
  


Henry gazes up at the tiny stars peeking through the darkness. Alex keeps his eyes trained on him.

  
  


“Hen.”

  
  


It’s resigned, a quiet breath into the night. But it leaves no room for argument. 

  
  


Henry turns back to look at him, his expression not giving much away. Alex pokes a finger at his temple. “What’s going on up there?”

  
  


In the seconds that pass, not a single emotion crosses Henry’s face.

  
  


And then-

  
  


Like an _asshole-_

  
  


“When do you want to get married?” 

  
  


Alex stares. Wordlessly, _stupidly,_ while his brain reboots. 

  
  


His mouth is moving, though he has no idea how, sputtering something like: “Well, shit, um- _Pfft._ I don’t- I don’t know- When were you- If you were like, hypothetically thinking that there would be some kind of hypothetical, um, marriage between us, when would I- Uh, okay-”

  
  


And Henry’s got this grin coming on, a small, fond thing, while he reaches for Alex’s left hand underneath the blankets. Brings it up to his lips for a long kiss, lingering just on his ring finger.

  
  


“I- You _fucker_ you- this isn’t _allowed-”_

  
  


“Really? Because I’m quite enjoying myself.”

  
  


“Oh, fuck _off.”_

  
  


“Alex,” he says, quieter this time. “You don’t have to answer right now, love. I was just asking.”

  
  


“You were-” Alex’s hands fly up to grip at his hair, hoping it’ll quell the sudden urge to vomit. “Did you just propose to me? Was that it? Did I just miss my own fucking engagement?”

  
  


_“No,_ no. Well, a bit-” 

  
  


Alex chokes.

  
  


_“But not really!_ Not really, love,” Henry assuages, gently prying Alex’s fingers away from his scalp. His heart doesn’t stop pounding. “I was only wondering about the timeline, you know. Because I figured…” 

  
  


Henry trails off, chewing doubtfully at his bottom lip. 

  
  


Before he can think too much about it, Alex laces their fingers together, willing his panic to give way into something softer. He can see every exhalation Henry makes now, bright swirls of mist through the streetlamps. 

  
  


Alex leans into it. Kisses the side of Henry’s mouth. “Hey,” he murmurs. “I want it, too.” 

  
  


Henry’s lip quirks up there, hopeful. “You do?” 

  
  


_“Hell_ yeah.”

  
  


The smile he gets in return is full now, all-encompassing and sunny in the night. And Alex- 

  
  


He didn’t know you could love anybody this much. 

  
  


Henry pulls him closer, until their noses are almost bumping into one another. “Lucky us, then.” 

  
  


The words are a prayer into the wind, and Alex sees them go, feels Henry coax their mouths together. He lets himself melt into it. 

  
  


Safe, for once. Bundled up in the space between Henry’s arms. 

  
  


“Honey, can I just-” Alex whispers, pulling away by a fraction.

  
  


Henry doesn’t let him go far. His breaths fan out against Alex’s cheek as he traces a thumb along it, dazedly. “Yeah, love?”

  
  


“I just need to know, like… what brought this on, I guess? I mean, I’m completely on board with it all, honestly, we just… never really talked about it before.” 

  
  


Henry drops his gaze, like he’s trying to piece the words together, and Alex gives him all the time he needs. He rests his head in the soft patch of hair behind Henry’s ear - content in the warmth of his neck and that clean, grassy scent that doesn’t ever go away. 

  
  


A few more moments go by. Then Henry speaks. “I… I always knew that I wanted a future with you. Right from the start.”

  
  


Alex draws back to look at him properly, nodding. “I did, too.” 

  
  


“And... I was fine with how everything was going. Taking it one day at a time, not really planning much for anything, just- having you with me was enough. Is enough. Because I was sure that you’d always be here.”

  
  


“I _will_ always be here, Hen.”

  
  


“I know, but-” He sighs, trilling fingers up the edge of Alex’s waist. “After everything… This was a sort of wake-up call, I suppose. The first thing I thought, when I saw you lying next to me on the hospital bed… it was, um-”

  
  


And Alex can hear the lump rise in Henry’s throat, the tell-tale flush around his eyes that will eventually give way to tears. He tugs him in closer, encouraging, rubbing circles at the side of his jaw. 

  
  


Henry’s voice breaks; his eyes well up traitorously. “I almost lost it. Our life together. Do you- do you ever think about th-”

  
  


“Every day, Henry.” Alex can hardly choke it out, struggling through his own tears, now. “Every fucking day.”

  
  


Henry wipes at his eyes, swiftly, a tiny sob breaking the surface. Biting the inside of his cheek, he continues, determined to go on. “I’m not just- doing this on impulse, you know, because I escaped death and- now I’m trying to lock you down, or anything. I’ve- I’ve thought about it forever.”

  
  


_Since the start,_ Alex thinks, because words are failing him right now. _Since Rio. Since I was thirteen and you were a picture under my hands._

  
  


He swallows hard, gathering the strength to speak. “Me too, sweetheart,” he roughs out, because it’s all he can manage.

  
  


Henry understands what he means, and that’s the only thing that matters. He clutches Alex’s face in his palms, and all of a sudden he’s twenty-two again, freezing and awestruck and falling in love while a million fireworks crackle through the sky.

  
  


“I’ve never _stopped_ thinking about it, Alex.” Henry’s eyes focus in on his own - serious, though they’re rimmed with pink. “So I want to make it clear to you.” 

  
  


Alex’s breath has left him, swept away as he stares. Frozen. 

  
  


“There will never, _ever,_ be another soul on this earth that I will love as much as I love you,” Henry urges, going quiet with the weight of it all. “I want us to be together, for as long as possible. Preferably until we’re both old and have our fair share of metal joints, if you’ll have me-”

  
  


“Of course I’ll have you, you fucking idiot,” Alex shouts, though it’s more like a sob as he clutches at Henry’s shirt. 

  
  


Henry lets out a teary laugh in response, planting a chaste kiss on Alex’s lips. For all the salt and tears slicking his face, they can’t hide his grin - undeterrable, infectious. 

  
  


“I’m not- asking. Not until we’re ready. But I want you to know.”

  
  


Alex wipes at his own face, wrecked and snotty as he collects himself. His heart has swelled to the bursting point.

  
  


Painful, almost. But so, entirely good. 

  
  


“Ugh, _God,_ I’m scared of what you’ll do to me when you actually propose.”

  
  


Henry seals his lips closed, like he’s biting down on some dirty, romantic trickery for the future, and Alex _has_ to shove him. “You know I get to ask you too, asshole! And there’s no way I’m letting you one-up me on it.”

  
  


“Well, darling. We’ll just have to see about that, won’t we?”

  
  


“Yeah, we’ll be seeing your ass in the dirt.”

  
  


“Try me.”

  
  


“I _will,”_ Alex insists with a chuckle, dropping his head onto Henry’s shoulder. The conversation thins out for a minute, but it’s not uncomfortable. 

  
  


It’s like the very air around them is waiting with excitement, because everything is out in the open now. They’re here, together, and they’ll have every moment after this to be together, and the entire universe knows. 

  
  


He and Henry know.

  
  


There’s a passing thought here and there, prickling at the back of Alex’s mind. Little curiosities that he can wait to figure out later. 

  
  


But this- 

  
  


This one in particular. 

  
  


Apprehensive, Alex clears his throat. “So… if we get married-”

  
  


“When, you mean.”

  
  


His head lifts slowly, a small, wonderstruck smile mirroring Henry’s own.

“...When we get married. I... Do you want any kids?”

  
  


It only takes half a second for Henry to respond, low and earnest: _“Dozens_ of them.”

  
  


And Alex doesn’t quite know what to do with this information.

  
  


“You- I- We can do _two.”_

  
  


“Five.”

  
  


Alex splutters. _“Three,_ take it or leave it!”

  
  


Henry’s grin is triumphant, and they both know that’s the number he wanted all along. “Fine.”

  
  


There’s nothing else Alex can do except shake his head, dumbfounded, returning to his spot at Henry’s neck. Brain reduced to nothing except - wow, wow, _wow._

  
  


There’s this hush that falls over the neighborhood, a rare silence that seems to be crafted for them only. Alex rests his lips against the edges of Henry’s hair; runs hands over his back as the first shades of dawn begin to color the sky. 

  
  


“Henry?” he murmurs, fluttering his eyes shut. 

  
  


A soft whisper back: “Yes, darling.”

  
  


Alex’s fingers tread just over the crescent of Henry’s ribcage. Where the bullet should have come out, but didn’t. 

  
  


It shouldn’t have come at all.

  
  


“I’m sorry this happened to you.”

  
  


Henry’s motions pause for a fleeting moment, breaths stilling. Even though Alex’s eyes are closed, he can picture Henry’s face so, so clearly. 

  
  


Reverent. Taking on gold with the sun. 

  
  


Slowly, he kisses the curls on Alex’s head. “I’ll be alright, love. I’ve got you.”

  
  


Alex grins. Leans in closer, his chest flush against Henry’s beating heart.

  
  


“I’ve got you, too, baby.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my god. this is going to sound dramatic, but i never thought i'd be able to actually complete a project like this. this story started out as a way for me to cope with finishing such an amazing book, but i ended up pouring so much of myself into it. for everyone who read - thank you. genuinely. it amazes me how many people i've connected with through such a small thing. i adore each and every single one of your comments, and i hope i did our boys justice for y'all. i love em to death. <3


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